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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 










HALF BKOTHERS 


BY 


HESBA STEETTOH 


AUTHOR OP “COBWEBS AND CABLES,” “CAROLA,” “JESSICA’S 
FIRST PRAYER,” ETC. 




\ 


\ 


.-^,'CrARY Cr 0/L 

(OCT 1 1892 

NEW YORK J ‘T VC JX * 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY / 

104 & 106 Fourth Avenue 


Copyright, 1892, by 
CASSELL rUBLISniNG COMPANY. 


All rights resei'ved. 


THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS, 
RAHWAY, N. J. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. In a Strange Land, 1 

II. At Innsbruck 13 

III. A Forsaken Child, 23 

IV. A Reprieve, ' . 28 

V. Winning the World, 36 

VI. Colonel Cleveland, 41 

VII. Margaret, 51 

VIII. Friends, Not Lovers, 56 

IX. Is Sophy Alive ? 62 

X. Chiara, 69 

XI. At Cortina, 79 

XII. A Half Confession, 85 

XIII. Rachel Goldsmith, 94 

XIV. Apley Hall, 101 

XV. Life AND Death, . . . . . . .106 

XVI. Andrew Goldsmith, Saddler, . . .112 

XVII. Andrew’s Friend, 122 

XVIII. Laura’s Scheme, 133 

XIX. The Son and Heir, 143 

XX. Brackenburn, 149 

XXI. Sidney’s Ward, 159 

XXII. Dorothy’s New Home, 168 

XXIII. A Wife for Philip, 173 

XXIV. The Rector’s Trouble, 183 

XXV. Coming of Age, 191 

XXVI. At Cross Purposes, 203 

XXVII. Who Will Give Way ? 214 

XXVIII. Homesickness, 222 

XXIX. In Venice, 234 

iii 


iv 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER 

XXX. A Mystery, 

XXXI. Martino, 

XXXII. An Old Letter, 

XXXIII. A Village “ Festa,” . 
XXXIV. A Forced Confession, 
XXXV. Beginning to Reap, 
XXXVI. In the Pine Woods, . 
XXXVII. Remorse, 

XXXVIII. CiiiARA’s Hut, . 
XXXIX. At Bay, .... 
XL. Phyllis and Dorothy, 
XLI. Margaret’s Conflict, . 
XLII. Captured, . 

XLIII. A Poor Man, . 

XLIV. Sophy’s Son, 

XLV. Bitter Disappointment, 
XLVI. Public Opinion, 

XLVII. Andrew’s Prayer, 
XLVIII. A Lost Love, 

XLIX. Winter Gloom, 

L. Father and Son, 

* LI. The Growth of a Soul, 
LII. Laura’s Doubts, 

LIII. Andrew’s Hope, 

LIV. Failures, . 

LV. A New Plan, 

LVI. On the Moors, . 

LVH. Expiation, 

LVHI. Night and Morning, . 
LIX. Found, . . . . 

LX. Martin’s Fate, . 


PAGE . , 

. 239 . 

248 
. 257 
266 
. 276 
289 
. 297 
306 
. 312 
320 
. 330 
337 
. 347 
352 
. 358 
369 
. 379 
387 
. 393 
400 
. 406 
413 
. 422 
435 
. 447 
455 
. 463 
470 
. 477 
482 
. 487 


HALF BROTHERS. 


CHAPTER 1. 

m A STRANGE LAND. 

It will be a terrible thing to be ill here, among 
strangers, to have my little child born, and no 
one with me, if Sidney does not come back. I 
have been looking for him every day for the last 
three weeks. Every morning I feel sure he will 
come, and every night I lie listening for any 
sound out of doors which might mean he is come. 
Out on the clock tower the watchmen strike the 
time on the bell every quarter of an hour, and I 
know how the night is slipping away. Some- 
times I get up and look through the window at 
the stars sparkling brighter than they ever 
sparkle on frosty nights in England, and the 
keen, keen air makes me shiver ; but I never see 
him in the village street, never hear him calling 
softly, so as not to wake other people, “ Sophy ! ” 
And I wonder what Aunt Rachel is thinking 
of me in England. I know she is troubled about 
me ; yes, and father will be half crazy about me. 
How dreadful it must be for those you love to 
disappear ! I did not think of that when I stole 


2 


HALF BROTHERS. 


away, and left them. And now, O God ! what 
would I give to have Aunt Rachel with me ! — 
especially if he does not come back in time. 

It is so lonely here, and I am growing frightened 
and homesick. I wish I was at home in my little 
room, in the bed with white curtains round it, 
and the window darkened to keep the sun out, 
as it used to be when Aunt Rachel nursed me 
through the fever. But this room ! why, it is as 
large as a house almost, and my little oil lamp 
is no better than a glowworm in it. The far 
corners of the room are as black as a pit, and 
there are four doors into it, and I cannot fasten 
any of them. I did not care much when he was 
with me ; but now I am frightened. I never 
knew before what it was to be afraid. Then 
there is no landlady in this inn — only Chiara, the 
old servant, whom I do not like. The landlord 
is a widower, a rough, good man, I dare say ; 
but I wish there had been a good mistress. 
Surely, surely, he will come back to me to- 
morrow. 

And now, because I have nothing else to do, 
and because I want to keep my mind off from 
worrying about his return, which is certain to be 
in time, I will write quite fairly and honestly how 
we came to quarrel, and why he left me, disap- 
pearing from me almost as I disappeared from 
Aunt Rachel and father, only I left them in their 
own home, and he has left me all alone in a 
rough inn, in a strange country ; and if he does 
not come back, what will become of me ? 


m A 8TRA±VGE LAND. 


3 


Aunt Rachel and father, I am writing all this 
for you. 

We were married quite secretly, for fear of his 
rich uncle, who would never, never have con- 
sented to him marrying a poor saddler’s daughter 
like me. And we left England directly under 
another name, and went down into Italy and 
wandered about ; I shall have strange things to 
tell of when I reach home again. And he was so 
kind, so fond of me ; only I vexed him often, 
because I did not care about the pictures and the 
music, and the old ruins, and all the things he 
delighted in. I wish I had pretended to care for 
them ; but he only laughed at first, and called 
me an odd name— a ‘‘pretty Philistine,” and 
took me to look in at the shop windows. So I 
did not guess that he cared so much, till he got 
tired, and used to leave me by myself while he 
went to picture galleries and concerts, and explor- 
ing ancient buildings. In Venice he left me all 
day, time after time, and I used to wander about 
the Piazza, and in and out of the little narrow 
streets, until I lost myself ; and I knew nothing 
of Italian, and very little French, and often and 
often I walked up and down for hours before I 
found the Piazza again, and then I knew where 
to go. From Venice we came up here, among 
the mountains, and now I am in Austria. When 
I was a girl at school I never thought I should 
go to Austria. It is a very narrow valley, just 
wide enough to hold a village with one street, and 
all that is on the slope. There are fields all along 


4 


HALF BROTHERS. 


the valley — fields without any hedgerows, and 
only rough cart tracks through them, and wher- 
ever the tracks cross one another there is a cruci- 
fix. Yes, there are crucifixes everywhere, and 
most of them are so ugly I cannot bear to look at 
them. I like better the little shrines, where 
Mary sits with the child Jesus in her arms. 

It is strange when I look out of the window to 
see the great high rocks rising up like walls far 
into the sky ; thousands of feet, Sidney said they 
are. They are so steep that snow cannot rest 
on them, and it only lies in the niches and on the 
ledges and the sharp points, which shine like 
silver in the sun. The sky looks almost like a 
fiat roof lying over the valley on the tops of these 
rocky walls. There is not a tree, or a shrub, or a 
blade of grass growing on them ; and how bleak 
it looks ! 

I do not like to begin about our quarrel. We 
had fallen into a way of quarreling, and I did 
not think much of it. You know, Aunt Rachel, 
I am always read}^ to kiss and be friends again, 
and it will be so again. When he comes back I 
will do everything he wishes, and I’ll pretend to 
like what he likes. I’ll not be the foolish, silly 
girl I was again. 

Nearly a mile from the village there is an old 
ruin, not a pretty place, only a fortress, built to 
guard the valley from the Italians, if they sent 
their soldiers this way. An ugly old place. 
There is a church built out of the stone, and a 
long flight of stone steps u^d to it. I felt very ill 


IN A STRANGE LAND. 


5 


and wretched and out of spirits that day ; three 
weeks to-morrow it will be, and Sidney was wor- 
rying me about the ruins. 

“ I wish you would learn to take some interest 
in anything besides yourself,” he said at last. 

I was sitting on the church steps, and he stood 
over [me, with a gloomy face, and looked at me 
as if he despised me. 

“ I wish rd never seen you ! ” I cried out sud- 
denly, as if I was beside myself. ‘‘I hate the 
day I ever saw you. I wish I’d been struck blind 
or dead that day. We’re going to be miserable 
for ever and ever, and I was happy enough till I 
knew you.” 

Those were bitter words ; how could I say them 
to Sidney? 

“If you say that again,” he answered, “I’ll 
leave you. I’ve borne your temper as long as I 
can bear it. Do you think you are the only one 
to be miserable ? I curse the day when I met 
you. It has spoiled all my future life, fool that 
I was ! ” 

“Fool! yes, that’s true,” I said in my passion, 
“ and I’m married to a fool ! And they used to 
think me so clever at home, poor Aunt Rachel 
and father did. Me ! I’m married to a fool, you 
know,” and I looked up, and looked round, as if 
there were people to hear me beside him. But 
there was nobody. He ground the pebbles under 
his foot, and raised himself up and stood as if he 
were going away the next moment. 

“Go on one minute longer, Sophy,” he said, 


6 


HALF BROTHERS. 


“and Pm off. You may follow me if you please, 
and be the ruin of my life, as you’re likely to be 
the plague of it. Oh, fool, fool that I was ! But 
Pll get a few days’ peace. Another word from 
you, and I go.” 

“Go ! go ! go! ” I cried, quite beside myself ; 
“ I shall only be too glad to see you go. Only I 
wish Aunt Rachel was here.” 

“Sophy, will you be reasonable?” he asked, 
and I thought he was going to give way again, as 
he always did before. 

“No, I won’t be reasonable ; I can’t be reason- 
able,” I said; “how can I be reasonable when 
Pm married to a fool ? If you’re going, go ; and 
if you’re staying, stay. Pm so miserable, I don’t 
care which.” 

I covered my face with my hands and rocked 
myself to and fro, hearing nothing but my own 
sobs. I expected to feel his hand on my head 
every moment, and to hear him say how he adored 
me. For we had quarreled many a time before, 
and he had even gone away, and sulked all day 
with me. But he never failed to beg me to for- 
give him and be friends again. I did not want 
to look up into his face, lest I should give way, 
and be friends before he said he was sorry. But 
he did not touch me, nor speak, though I sobbed 
louder and louder. 

“Sidney!” I said at last, with my face still 
hidden from him. 

But even then he did not speak ; and by and 
by I lifted up my head, and could not see him 


IN A STRANGE LAND, 


1 


anywhere. There seemed to be no one near me ; 
but there were plenty of corners in the ruins 
where he could hide himself and watch me. I 
sat still for a long time to tire him out. Then I 
got up, and strolled very slowly down toward the 
village. There is a crucifix by the side of the 
narrow fort-road, larger than most of the others, 
and there on the cross hangs a wooden figure of 
Jesus Christ, so worn and weather-beaten that it 
looks almost a skeleton, and all bleached and 
pale as if it had been hanging there through 
thousands of years. It seemed very desolate and 
sad that evening, and I stood looking at it, with 
the tears in my eyes, making it all dim and misty. 
The sun was going down, and just then it passed 
behind the peak of one of the precipices, and a 
long stream of light fell across a pine forest more 
than a mile away, and into that forest a lonely 
man was passing, and he looked like Sidney. My 
heart sank suddenly ; it is a strange thing to feel 
one’s heart sinking, and I felt all at once as 
desolate and forsaken as the image on the cross 
above me. 

‘ ‘ Sidney ! ” I called in as clear and loud a tone 
as I could. ‘‘ Sidney ! ” 

But if that man, lost now in the pine forest, 
was Sidney, he was too far off to hear me, wasn’t 
he ? Still I could not give up the hope that he 
was hiding among the ruins, and I called and 
called again, louder and louder, for I began to be 
terrified. It was all in vain. The sun set, and 
the air grew chilly, and they rang the Angelas in 


8 


HALF BMOT.HFES. 


the clock- tower. The long twilight began, and 
the flowers shut up their pretty leaves. The cold 
was very sharp and biting, and made me shiver. 
So I called him once again in a despairing 
voice. 

“ Oh 1 ’’ I said, looking up to the worn, white 
face of the Christ upon the cross, as if the wooden 
image could hear me, “I’m so miserable, and I 
am so wicked.” 

That really made me feel better, and my passion 
went away in a moment. Yes, I would be good, 
I said to myself, and never vex him again. I 
knew I ought to be good to him, for he was so 
much above me, and ran such risks to marry me. 
Perhaps I ought to be more obedient to him than 
if I had married a man who kept a shop, like 
father. Sometimes I think I should have been 
happier if I had ; but that is nonsense, you 
know. And Sidney has never been rough or rude 
to me, as many men would be, if I went into such 
tempers with them. He is always a gentleman ; 
always. 

“I told him I was passionate,” I said, half- 
aloud, I think ; “and he ought to have believed 
me. And oh ! to think how anxious Aunt Rachel 
is about me, never knowing where I am or what 
has happened to me for nearly nine months ! It 
is that makes me so miserable and cross ; I can’t 
help flying out at him ; but he says I must not 
tell or write for his sake. Oil ! I will be better, I 
will be good. And he’s so fond of me ; I know 
he can’t be gone far away. I expect he’s gone 


m A STRA^^GE LAND. 


9 


back to the inn, and will be waiting for his sap- 
per, and I’d better make haste.” 

But I could not walk quickly, for I felt faint 
and giddy. Once or twice I stumbled against 
a stone, and Sidney was not there to helx3 me. 
When I reached the inn I looked into the room 
where we had our meals ; but he was not there. 
And he was nowhere in our great barn of a bed- 
room. His portmanteau w^as there, and all his 
things, so I knew he could not stay long away. 
I made signs to Chiara, the maid, for I cannot 
speak Italian or German ; but she did not under- 
stand me. So I went to bed and cried myself to 
sleep. 

Now I have told exactly how it happened. It 
is nearly three weeks ago ; and every hour I have 
expected to see Sidney come back. He has left 
most of his money behind in my care ; there are 
nearly eighty pounds in foreign money that I do 
not understand. Quite plenty; I’m not vexed 
about that. But I want him to be here taking 
care of me. What am I to do if he is not here in 
time ? Chiara is kind enough ; only we cannot 
understand one another, and what will become 
of me ? Oh ! if Aunt Rachel could only be here ! 

It is a very rough place, this inn. My bedroom 
is paved with red tiles like our kitchen at home ; 
and there is no fire-place, only an immense white 
stove in one corner, which looks like a ghost at 
night, when there is any moonlight. There is a 
big deal table, and a kind of sofa, as large as a 
bed, placed on one side of it. The bed itself is so 


10 


HALF BROTHEBS. 


high I have to climb into it by a chair. There 
are four windows ; and when I look out at them 
there is little else to be seen but the great high, 
awful rocks, shutting out the sky from my sight ; 
they frighten me. Downstairs, the room below 
mine is the kitchen. It is like a barn, too ; jiaved 
with rough slabs of stone. There is an enormous 
table, with benches on each side. At one end of 
the kitchen is a sort of little room, with six sides, 
almost round ; and in the middle of it is a kind 
of platform, built of brick, about two feet high ; 
and this is their fire-place, where all the cooking 
is done. There is always a huge fire of logs 
burning, and there are tall chairs standing round 
it, tall enough for people to put their feet on the 
high hearth. I’ve sat there myself, with my cold 
feet on the hot bricks, and very comfortable it is 
on a frosty night. And above it hangs an enor- 
mous, enormous extinguisher, which serves as a 
chimney, but which can be lowered by chains. 
At nights all the rough men in the village come 
and sit round this queer fire-place ; and oh ! the 
noises there are make me shiver with terror. 

Chiara is very careful of me ; too careful. She 
makes me go out a little every day, when I would 
rather stay in, and watch for Sidney. I always 
go as far as the old crucifix, for it seems to com- 
fort me. I always say to it, ‘‘ Oh, he must come 
back to-day, I can’t bear it any longer. And oh ! 
I’ll never, never vex him any more.” And the 
sad face seems to understand, and the head bows 
down lower as if to listen to me. It seems to 


IN A STBANGE LAND. 


11 


heed me, and to be very sorry for me. I wonder 
if it can be wicked to feel in this way. But in 
England I should not want any crucifix, I should 
have Aunt Kachel. 

I am afraid Sidney forgot that I should want 
him near me. Suppose he does not come back 
till I am well and strong again, and can put my 
baby into his arms myself. There is a pretty 
shrine on the other road to the village, not the 
road where he left me, and in it is Mary with a 
sweet little child lying across her knees asleep. 
Suppose he should come and find us like that, 
and I could not wake the baby, and he knelt 
down before us, and put his arms round us both. 
Oh, I should never be in a passion again. 

I have not written all this at once. Oh, no ! 
Chiara takes the pen and ink away, and shakes 
her funny old head at me. She makes me laugh 
sometimes, even now. Whenever I hear the 
tramp, tramp of her wooden shoes, I fancy she is 
coming to say Sidney is here, and afraid to startle 
me ; but it would not startle me, for I expect him 
all the time. 

Some day he will drive me in a carriage and 
pair, along the streets at home, and all the neigh- 
bors will see, and say, “Why, there’s Sophy 
Goldsmith come back, riding in her own car- 
riage ! ” And I shall take my baby, and show 
him to my aunts and father, and ask them if it 
was not worth while to be sorry” and anxious for 
a time to have an ending like this. 

This moment I have made up my mind that 


12 


HALF BROTHERS. 


they shall not be sorry nor anxious any longer. 
I will send this long story I have written to Aunt 
Rachel ; and I will send our portraits which 
Sidney had taken in Florence. Oh, how hand- 
some he is! And I, don’t you tliink I am very 
pretty? I did not know I looked like that. 
Good-by, Sidney and myself. I must make 
Chiara buy me ever so many postage stamps to- 
morrow morning. 

Dearest father and Aunt Rachel, come and 
take care of me and my little baby. Forgive me, 
forgive me, for being a grief to you ! 


Sophy. 


CHAPTER IL 

AT INNSBRUCK. 

When Sidney Martin turned away from his 
petulant young wife, and strode with long hasty 
strides up the mountain track which lay nearest 
to him, he did so simply from the impulse of 
passion. He was little more than a boy himself ; 
just as she was little more than a wayward girl. 
It was scarcely a year since he left Oxford ; and 
he was now spending a few months in traveling 
abroad as a holiday, before settling down to the 
serious business of life. His uncle was the head 
of the great firm of Martin, Swansea & Co., ship- 
ping agents, whose business lay like a vast net 
over the whole commercial world, bringing in 
golden gains from the farthest and least known 
of foreign markets. Sir John Martin, for he had 
already been knighted, and looked forward to a 
baronetcy, was a born Londoner, at home only 
in the streets of London, and unable to find 
pleasure or recreation elsewhere. But he was 
desirous that his nephew and heir should be a 
man of the world, finding himself unembarrassed 
and at home in any sphere of society ; especially 
those above the original position of his family. 
To this end he had sent Sidney to Eton and Ox- 
13 


14 


HALF BROTHERS. 


ford ; and had noAv given him a year’s holiday to 
see those foreign sights presumed to be necessary 
to the full completion of his education. 

The misfortune was, as Sidney had long since 
owned to himself, that he had not been content 
to take this holiday alone. He was in love, with 
a boy’s passion, with Sophy Goldsmith ; and he 
knew his uncle would rather follow him to the 
grave than see him married to a girl so far be- 
neath him in position. It was impossible to leave 
Sophy behind ; he had no diflBiculty in persuading 
her to consent to a secret marriage. She was a 
girl of the same age as himself, whose sole lit- 
erary education had consisted in the reading of 
third-rate novels, where none of the heroines 
would have hesitated for a moment from stealing 
away, as she did, from her very commonplace 
home ; to which she expected some day to return 
in great state and glory. 

But the stolen happiness had been very brief. 
Sidney, boy as he was, found out too soon how 
ignorant and empty-headed his pretty, unedu- 
cated wife was. She was in no sense a com- 
panion for him. Traveling about from place to 
place, with all the somewhat pedantic book-learn- 
ing of his university career fresh upon him, and 
with enthusiastic associations for many of the 
spots they visited, especially in Italy and Greece, 
he was appalled to find that what interested him 
beyond words was inexx)ressibly wearisome to 
her. What was the Palace of the Caesars to one 
who knew only as much of Koman history as she 


AT INNSBRUCK. 


15 


had learned in Mangnall’s Questions at the poor 
day-school she had gone to ? Or Horace’s farm ; 
who was Horace? Or Pliny’s villa; she knew 
nothing of Pliny. Why did he want to go to 
Tnsculum ? And why did he care about the 
Etruscan tombs ? She did not want to learn. 
She had not married to go to school again, she 
declared one day, with a burst of tears ; and if 
he had not loved her as she was he ought to have 
left her. There were those who would have loved 
her if she had not known a great A from a chest 
of drawers. She would not bother herself with 
any such things. 

Sidney discovered, too, that she cared equally 
little for painting or music. A brass band play- 
ing dance-music in the streets and a strongly 
tinted oleograph was as far as her native taste in 
music and art would carry her ; and she resented 
the most delicately hinted instruction on these 
points also. The wild and magnificent scenery 
which delighted him immeasurably, was dreary 
and unintelligible to her. She loved streets and 
shops, and driving amid throngs of other car- 
riages, and going to theaters, though even there 
she yawned and moped because she could not 
understand a word the actors spoke. It was in 
vain he urged her to try and acquire a knowledge 
of ‘the language. She was going to live in Eng- 
land, she argued ; and it was not worth while to 
spend her time in learning Italian or French. 

Before six months had passed, the inward con- 
viction had eaten into Sidney’s mind that his 


16 HALF BROTHERS. 

marriage was a fatal mistake. He brooded si- 
lently over tills thought until it affected strongly 
his temper, kind and sanguine when untried, but 
now falling into a somber despair. He had been 
guilty of a folly which his uncle would never 
overlook. If Sophy had been as intellectual as 
she was beautiful, he could have educated her, 
and so made a companion of her ; and possibly 
his uncle might in time be won over to forgive- 
ness. A brilliant, beautiful woman, able to 
hold her own in society, one of whom Sir John 
could be proud, might have conquered him ; but 
never an ignorant, empty-headed, low-born dunce, 
like Sophy. A dunce and a fool, the young hus- 
band called her in the bitter intolerance of youth ; 
for youth demands perfection in every person save 
self. 

This inward disgust and weariness of his silly 
little wife had been smouldering and increasing 
for months. Once before he had given way to it 
so far as to leave her for a few days, and to wan- 
der about in what seemed a blissful and restful 
solitude. But he had written to her, and kept 
her informed of his mdvements, and had returned 
after a short absence. How he felt he could not 
take up the heavy burden again; not voluntarily. 

He made his way through the darkening shad- 
ows of great pine forests and narrow valleys, to 
Toblach, a village about twenty miles distant, at 
the entrance of the Ampezzo valley, through 
which Sophy must pass, if she continued her 
journey without retracing alone the route by 


AT INNSBRUCK. 


11 


which they had come. And there he remained 
for three or four days, expecting to see her ar- 
rival hour after hour. Then he grew nettled. 
She was waiting for him to go back penitent, 
like the prodigal son. Not he ! She was quite 
able to manage a journey alone ; and he had 
left her plenty of money — indeed, nearly all he 
possessed. It was not as if she was some high- 
born young lady, who had never ventured out of 
doors unattended. Sophy had the hardy inde- 
pendence of a girl who had earned her own liv- 
ing, and had expected to manage for herself all 
her life. This had become one of her offenses 
in his eyes. She was as sharp as a needle in 
avoiding imposition, and taking care of money ; 
and her generalship at the many hotels they had 
stayed in had at first amused, and then enraged 
him. She could take very good care of herself. 

Still, when he went on his way, he left word 
with the landlord of the hotel that he was gone 
to the Kaiserkrone at Botzen ; and at Botzen he 
stayed another three days, and left the same in- 
structions as to her following him to the Goldne 
Sonne, at Innsbruck. Each journey made the 
distance between them greater, and gave to him 
a feeling of stronger relief at being free from her 
presence. There was no return of his boyish pas- 
sion for her ; not a spark revived in the ashes of 
the old flame. 

He was sauntering through the Hofkirche at 
Innsbruck, gazing somewhat wearily at the gro- 
tesque bronze figures surrounding the tomb of 


18 


HALP BHOTBERB. 


Maximilian, and thinking how Sophy would have 
screamed with laughter, and talked in the shrill 
key that had so often made him look round 
ashamed, in other famous churches ; for he was 
at an age when shame is an overpowering vexa- 
tion. 

‘‘ Thank Heaven, she is not here,’’ he said half 
aloud, when suddenly a hand was laid on his 
shoulder, and a iamiliar voice exclaimed : 

‘‘ What, Sidney ! you are here — and alone ! ” 

“Alone ! ” he repeated ; “ who did you expect 
to find with me, George ? ” he asked irritably. 

It was the last word that struck him, and over- 
balanced the astonishment he felt at hearing his 
cousin’s voice. George Martin shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“ Come out of this church,” he said, in a voice 
toned down to quietness, “and I’ll tell you 
straight. I never [^could manage anything, you 
know ; there’s no diplomacy in me, and so I 
told Uncle John. Come ; I can’t talk about it 
here.” 

They went out into the open air, and strolled 
down to the river in silence. George Martin was 
in no hurry to tell his message, and Sidney shrank 
from receiving it. He had often dreaded that 
some rumor might reach his uncle ; for Sophy 
had not been prudent enough in effacing herself 
on their travels. So the two young men stood on 
the bridge, gazing down at the rapid rushing of 
the waters below them, and f orsome time neither 
of them spoke a word. 


AT INNSBRUCK. 


19 


“Old fellow,” said George at last, laying his 
hand affectionately on Sidney’s shoulder, “I’m 
so glad to see you alone. There isn’t anybody at 
the hotel, is there ? ” 

“What do you mean?” asked Sidney with a 
parched throat. 

“Anyone you would be ashamed of, you 
know,” he continued. “ Uncle John heard some- 
how there was a girl traveling about with you — 
I don’ t like to say it, Sid — and he sent me off at 
a moment’s notice after you. There, now the 
murder’s out ! Uncle John said, ‘ Don’t be bluff 
and outspoken ; but find out quietly.’ But I 
never could be diplomatic. You are alone, 
Sidney, aren’t you?” 

“Quite alone,” answered Sidney, looking 
frankly and steadily into his cousin’s face. 
There was always a winning straightforwardness 
and clearness in his gray eyes, as if the soul of 
honor dwelt behind them, which went right to 
the hearts of those who met their gaze ; and 
George Martin’s clouded face brightened at 
once. 

“I’m so glad, so thankful, old fellow ! ” he 
exclaimed. ‘ ‘ I don’ t mind now telling you, uncle 
was in an awful rage, swore he would disinherit 
you, and cut you off without even a shilling, 
you know ; and sent me to find you out, because 
I was to be the heir in your place, if it was true. 
Perhaps he thought that would make me keen to 
find it true. But oh, how thankful I am to find 
it false ? We are more like brothers than cousins, 


20 


HALF BROTHERS. 


Sidney ; and Fd rather lose a dozen fortunes that 
lose you.’’ 

Sidney grasped his hand with a firm, strong 
clasp, but said nothing. For the moment he was 
dumb ; his pulses beat too strongly for him to 
speak in a natural tone. Disinherited ! He who 
had not a penny of his own. George Martin at- 
tributed his silence and agitation to the indigna- 
tion he must be feeling. 

“Come home at once with me,” he said, “and 
make it all right with Uncle John. It was a vile 
scandal, and just the thing to exasperate him. 
It’s only giving up a few weeks of your holiday ; 
and it’s worth while, I tell you, Sid. He said he 
had it on good authority ; but if you go back 
with me, he’ll be satisfied.” 

“I don’t know,” answered Sidney, with some 
hesitation; “it’s like owning I am afraid of 
being disinherited. Leave me to think it over ; 
it is not a thing to be decided in a moment.” 

Yet he knew at the bottom of his heart that he 
had already decided. It seemed to him as if he 
had been saved from a fatal exposure by the drift 
of circumstances. But for Sophy’s violent tem- 
per she would either have been with him when his 
cousin met him at Innsbruck, or George would 
have pursued his journey to the Ampezzo valley, 
and found them there. Then it would have been 
impossible to conceal the truth — the hateful truth 
— any longer. That would have been utter ruin 
for them both. He could do nothing to maintain 
a wife or, indeed, himself, if his uncle disin- 


AT INNSBRUCK. 


21 


herited him. So far lie had never earned a six- 
pence in his life. If he acknowledged Sophy 
just now, it would only be to bring her to des- 
titution ; or to make himself dependent upon her 
exertions. 

He went back to his hotel, and wrote a long 
letter to his young wife, carefully worded, lest it 
should fall into wrong hands. He told her to 
make her way as directly as possible to England 
to her father’s house; and to let him know 
immediately of her return there. She could 
reach it by tolerably easy railway journeys in 
about a week ; and he carefully traced out her 
route, entering the moment of departure for each 
train she must take, and telling her at what 
hotels she must stay. It was now' a week since 
he had left her, and he had no doubt she was on 
her way after him. It seemed to him as though 
he was taking an almost tender care for her 
safety and comfort, more than she deserved ; and 
thought she ought to be very grateful to him for 
it. He urged the utmost prudence upon her in 
regard to their secret. 

He left this letter with the landlord of the 
Goldne Sonne, doing so with considerable cau- 
tion, very well concealed. It was addressed to S. 
Martin only, and might have been either for a man 
or a woman. If no person claimed it, it was to 
be forwarded to him intact at the end of three 
months, when he would send a handsome ac- 
knowledgment for it. But it would x3robably be 
asked for in the course of a few days ; for Sidney 


22 


HALF BROTHERS. 


reminded himself, with self-gratulation, that at 
both of the hotels he had quitted lately he had 
left instructions for Sophy ; with a careful de- 
scription of her appearance, that no wrong per- 
son should receive them. 

These steps set his conscience at rest ; and he 
returned to England witli no heavier burden on 
his spirits than the dread of discovery, which 
must be borne as long as he was absolutely de- 
pendent upon his uncle’s favor. 


CHAPTER III. 

A FORSAKEN CHILD. 


Sophy finished her letter, the letter which was 
to be posted the next day. But before the morn- 
ing came her child was born, and the young 
mother lay speechless and motionless, uncon- 
ciously fioating down the silent sea of death. 
There was no one with her but Chiara, the work- 
ing housekeeper of the inn ; but there was no 
sign that the girl felt troubled or lonely. Chiara 
laid the baby across her chilling, heaving breast, 
and for a moment there dickered a smile about 
her pale lips, as she made a feeble effort to clasp 
her new-born babe in her arms. • But these signs 
of life were gone in a moment like the passing of 
a fitful breeze ; and her rough nurse, stooping 
down to look more closely at her white face, saw 
that the young foreigner was dead. 

For some minutes Chiara stood gazing at the 
dead girl, and the living child on her bosom, 
'without moving. She had dispatched a boy to 
fetch the nearest doctor, but he was gone to a pa- 
tient some miles away, and it would be two or 
three hours before he could reach the inn. All 
the house and all the village were asleep, except 
the watchman in the bell-tower, who struck the 


24 


HALF BBOTHERS. 


deep-toned bell every quarter. It had not oc- 
curred to her to suininon any helper ; she had 
known what was coining, and had made all neces- 
sary preparations. But she had not counted on 
any risk to the life of the young mother ; and 
this made all the difference in the world. 

Chiara believed she perfectly understood the 
position of affairs. The young Englishman who 
had disappeared three weeks ago had grown 
weary of his whim, pretty as the girl was ; and 
would not care if he never heard of her again. 
That was as plain as the day. 

Was there nothing to Chiara’ s advantage in 
the turn affairs had taken ? The pretty English- 
woman had left boxes enough and goods enough 
of many kinds, and Chiara was well acquainted 
with their value, for Sophy was careless with her 
keys, excepting the key of a strong jewel-case, 
which the inn servant had never seen open. It 
w^as not difficult now to find the key. In a little 
while she opened the case, and her eyes glistened 
as they fell upon a roll of bank-notes and a 
quantity of ducats and gulden, how many she 
had not time to count. There were a few jewels, 
too ; and the jewel-case was an easy thing to 
take away and hide. Chiara was a woman of 
prompt measures. Yes, she could adopt the 
child, and take care of this fortune for him her- 
self. If it fell into the hands of the landlord, or 
the padre^ or the mayor, there would be nothing 
lef t by the time the boy grew up. It was the 
best thing she could do for him; and the Eng- 


A CHILD. 


25 


lishman would be glad enough to be rid of the 
burden of the child, even if he ever returned to 
make inquiries after the girl he had deserted. 
He had left all this money behind him to make 
amends to her for his desertion, and was 
sure not to come back. That was as clear as 
day. 

She left the baby lying across its dead mother, 
and stole away softly to her own garret to hide 
her treasure securely. The dawn was breaking 
in a soft twilight which would strengthen into 
the full day long before the sun could climb the 
high barrier of the rocks. Very soon the cocks 
began to crow, and the few birds under the eaves 
to twitter. The doctor was not yet come when 
Chiara thundered at her master’s door, and 
called out in a loud voice : 

“Signore, a boy is born, and the little signora 
is dead.” 

The landlord was a man who cared for nothing 
if his dinner was to his liking and his wines good. 
Chiara had managed all domestic affairs so well 
for so many years that he was willing she should 
manage this little difficulty. The trusty woman 
produced enough money to defray all the ex- 
penses incurred by the English people, who had 
honored his hotel with their custom. No one 
questioned the claim of Chiara to the clothes and 
the few jewels left by the English lady, especially 
as she took upon herself the entire charge of the 
child. The dead mother was buried without rite 
or ceremony in a solitary corner of the village 


26 


HALF BROTHERS. 


cemetery, for everybody knew she was not entitled 
to a Christian burial, being an accursed heretic ; 
but the child was baptized into the Catholic 
Church. 

It was not possible for Chiara to keep the baby 
herself in the bustling life of the village inn; and 
she had no wish to do so. She had a sister, with 
children of her own, living up on the mountains, 
in a small group of huts where a few shepherds 
and goatherds lived near one another for safety 
and companionship during the bitter winter 
months, when the wolves prowled around the 
hovels, under whose roofs the goats and sheep 
were folded, as well as the men, women, and 
children. The children received almost less care 
and attention than the sheep and goats, which 
were worth money. The whole community led a 
savage and uncivilized life. Behind their little 
hamlet rose the huge escarpment of gray rocks, 
which hid the sun from them until it was high in 
the heavens, and in whose clefts the snow and ice 
lay unmelted ten months in the year. Far below 
them was the valley, with its church and clock- 
tower, from which the chiming of bells came up 
to their ears plainly enough ; but the distance was 
too great for any but the strongest among them 
to go down, unless it was a great festival of the 
church, when their eternal salvation depended 
upon assisting at it. Now and then a priest 
made his way up to this far-off corner of his 
parish, but it was only Avhen one of its few in- 
habitants was dying. No one had the courage 


A FORSAKEN CHILD. 


27 


to undertake the task of civilizing this little plot 
of almost savage barbarism. 

The name of the young Englishman, the father 
of the little waif thrust back in this manner to a 
state of original savagery, had been entered in 
the register of the village inn as S. Martin. The 
child was christened Martino. Chiara agreed to 
pay 150 kreutzers a month for his maintenance, 
an enormous sum it seemed, but her sister knew 
how to drive a good bargain, and had a shrewd 
suspicion that Chiara could very well aiford to 
pay more. 


CHAPTER ly. 

A REPRIEVE. 

Three months passed by, and found Sidney 
Martin fairly at work in his uncle’s office. It 
had been a busy and exciting time with him, and 
he had had little leisure to brood over his private 
difficulties. It was impossible that he could for- 
get Sophy, but he felt more willing to forget her 
than to rack his brains over the silence and mys- 
tery that surrounded her absence. Inherited in- 
stinct awoke within him a love of finance and 
commerce. The world- wide business carried on 
in the busy offices of his uncle’s shipping agency 
firm in the City of London had taken possession 
of his mind, appealing curiously enough to his 
imagination, and he was throwing himself into 
its affairs with an ardor very satisfactory to Sir 
John Martin. 

There was something fascinating to Sidney in 
the piles of letters coming in day after day bear- 
ing the postmarks of every country under the 
sun, and the foreign letters were generally allot- 
ted to him. But one morning, as they passed 
through his hands, a letter bearing the name of 
the Goldne Sonne, Innsbruck, lay among them, 
bringing his heart to his mouth as his eye fell 


A REPRIEVE. 


29 


ui)onit. He glanced around at liis uncle, as if 
he could not fail to observe it and suspect him of 
some secret, but Sir John was absorbed with his 
own share of the correspondence. The Innsbruck 
letter was slipped away into Sidney’s pocket, and 
he went on opening the rest ; but his brain was 
in a whirl, and refused to take in the import of 
any of them. ‘‘I’ve a miserable headache to- 
day,” he said at last, with a half groan; “I 
cannot make anything out of these.” 

“Go home, my boy,” answered his uncle, 
“and take a holiday. We can do very well 
without you.” 

Sidney was glad to get away. This unopened 
letter — which he had not dared to open in his 
uncle’s presence — seemed of burning importance. 
Yet he felt sure it was nothing but the letter of 
directions he had left for Sophy when he quitted 
Innsbruck. All these months her fate had been 
a mystery to him. She had disappeared so com- 
pletely out of his life, that sometimes it seemed 
to him positively that his marriage had been only 
a dream. From the moment of his return to 
England, he had been incessantly worried by the 
dread of her arrival, either at his uncle’s house 
or at the offices in the City. More than once he 
had been on the point of telling his uncle all 
about his fatal mistake, but his courage always 
failed him at the right moment. Sometimes he 
felt angry at Sophy’s obstinate silence, but more 
often he was glad of it. He felt so free without 
her. His understanding and intellect, his very 


30 


HALF BROTHERS. 


soul, seemed to have thrown off some stifling 
incubus. He could enjoy art and music again. 
There was no silly girl to be jealous of his books. 
The brief, boyish passion he had felt was dead, 
and there could be no resurrection of it. It ap- 
peared monstrous to him that his Avhole life 
should be blighted for one foolish and mad act. 
If he only knew once for all what had become of 
her, and that she would never trouble him again, 
no regret would burden his emancipated spirit. 

Instead of going home this morning, he took 
the train for Apley, a small town lying between 
London and Oxford, where he had first seen 
Soj)hy. On the way down he read his own letter 
to her, giving her minute directions for her jour- 
ney. Yes, he had been very thoughtful, very 
considerate for her ; if she had obeyed him, she 
would now have been awaiting his visit to Apley. 
He felt a great throb of gladness, however, that 
it was not so ; and then the thought crossed his 
mind, like a thunderbolt, that possibly she had 
acted in the very manner he had suggested in the 
letter he held in his hand, all but his final in- 
struction of letting him know of her safe arrival. 
If so, his wife and his child were now dwelling 
in the country town which he had just entered. 

This idea opened uj) to him a great gulf, in 
which all his future life would be swallowed up. 
He did not feel any yearning tow^ard his un- 
known child ; it seemed but yesterday since he 
was a child himself — and yet what ages since ! 
He 'walked slowly down the almost deserted 


A REPRIEVE. 


31 


High Street, and past tlie shop wliere he had 
first seen her. It was a small saddler’s shop, 
with a man at work in the bow-window, and a 
show of bridles and reins festooned about the 
panes of glass. There were three steps up to the 
door ; and he recollected well how Soph 3^ looked 
as she stood, smiling and blushing, to receive his 
orders about the saddle he wanted reiiaired. He 
was staying then with Colonel Cleveland at Apley 
Hall, his uncle’s oldest friend. How long ago it 
seemed — yet it was not three years ! Oh ! what 
a fool he had been ! 

He opened the closed door, and set a little bell 
tinkling loudly. The workman in the window 
took no notice of him, but a woman came for- 
ward from a back room. She was of middle age, 
and her face bore a strong resemblance to Soph^^^’s. 
She looked at him with a faint, pleasant smile, 
though her eyes were sad, and her face pale. 
There was a gentleness and sweetness about her 
manner that made him feel uncomfortable and 
guilty. 

“ Can you tell me if any of the Clevelands are 
at home?” he inquired. He knew they were 
not, or he would not have ventured down to 
Apley. 

“No, sir,” answered Hachel Goldsmith, in a 
clear though low voice ; “Colonel Cleveland is in 
Germany, I believe, with Miss Cleveland.” 

“ I almost fancy,” continued Sidney, “that I 
owe you a few shillings. I ought to pay interest 
if I do, for the debt has run on for three years or 


32 


HALF BROTHERS. 


SO. I was staying at Apley Hall, and had my 
saddle mended here. Do you know if it was paid 
for?” 

“What date was it, sir?” she asked, opening 
a ledger that lay on a desk on the counter. 

“Nearly three years ago,” he replied, “as 
near as I can guess. A young lady took my 
orders ; x^erhaps she may remember the date.” 

His voice trembled somewhat, but Rachel Gold- 
smith did not notice it. Her hands were shaking 
so much she could hardly turn over the leaves. 

“ Is she at home ? Cannot you ask her?” he 
inquired ; and his pulse seemed to stand still as 
he waited for her reply. 

“Sir,” she said, closing the ledger, “we have 
lost m}^ niece.” 

“Lost her!” he rex)eated, and the blood 
bounded through his veins again, and the color 
came back to his pallid face. Sophy, then, was 
not here ! 

“Yes,” she said, with quivering lips, “but 
not by death. I could bear that and be thankful. 
But when those you love disappear, oh ! nobody 
knows what the misery is. We do not know if 
she is dead or alive. I loved her as if she had 
been my own child ; but she did not feel as if 
she owed me the duty of a child ; and, when I 
thwarted her, she went away, and left a letter 
saying she was gone to London. We have never, 
never heard of her since, and it is now over a 
year ago. She is lost in London.” 

Rachel Goldsmith’s voice Avas broken with sobs. 


A REPRIEVE. 


33 


But before Sidney spoke again, for he was slow 
in answering, she went on, with a glimmer of a 
smile at herself. 

“You’ll excuse me, sir,” she said. “I tell 
everybody, for when you have lost anything no 
one knows who may come across it, or hear of it. 
Not that a young gentleman like you could have 
any chance ; and my trouble cannot interest 
you.” 

“ Oh ! I am more interested than you think,” 
he answered ; “I cannot say how much.” 

“I have her photo here,” she continued, “and 
it might chance that you should see her in Lon- 
don some day. And whatever she has been 
doing, oh! we’ll welcome her home like a lost 
lamb. She’s only a young, giddy girl, sir, and 
she’ll make a good woman by and by. Not that 
I’m certain she’s in London. For I’ve got a little 
scrap of writing from her three months after she 
went away, and it was posted in Rome. But she 
said she was only traveling, and when she came 
back she would live in London. I’m sorely 
afraid she has been deceived and led astray. 
But here is her likeness, sir, if you’d please to 
see it, and the note she wrote.” 

With a hand that shook visibly, she drew 
from her pocket a worn and soiled envelope and 
handed it to Sidney. He turned his back upon 
her, and went to the half-glass door to look at 
the contents. There was a fading photograph of 
Sophy, her pretty features set in a simper, and 
her slight figure posed in an affected attitude. 


34 


HALF BROTHERS. 


But it was Sophy’s face ; and a pang of remorse, 
and almost of a love not quite dead, shot through 
his heart. He would have given half the fortune 
he was heir to never to have seen that face. 

“Please read the note, sir,” persisted Rachel 
Goldsmith. 

It Avas an untidy scrawl, and there was a mis- 
take or two in spelling ; but Sidney felt the tears 
smart under his eyelids as he read the words. 

“ Dear father,” Avrote Sophy, “don’t go to be 
fretting after me. I’m as happy as a queen all 
day, and living grander than you could eA^er 
think of. It has been a strange time since I saAv 
you, but I shall come and tell you all about it as 
soon as ever I can. We are going to live in Lon- 
don Avhen we come back ; and my husband is a 
gentleman you never saAv, nor never kneAv. 
You’ll be as glad as I am Avhen you knoAV all. — 
Your loving Sophy.” 

“And that is all you know about Ler ? ” he 
asked, after a long pause, when he could control 
himself enough to speak with no more sympathy 
than should be shoAvn by a kind-hearted stranger. 

“All, sir, every Avord,” she answered, Aviping 
the tears from her eyes. “Of course, I shall 
never give up hope ; and if prayers will bring 
her back, my prayers shall. Her father is my 
brother, and has his name over the shop, ‘James 
Goldsmith’; and sometimes he’s nearly mad 
about it, and sometimes he says she’s married to 
surprise us all, and will come back a grand lady. 
Well ! thank you kindly, sir, for listening to 


A REPRIEVE. 


35 


me ; but I tell everybody, for who knows who 
may come across her some day % ” 

Sidney bade her good-by, and went his way. 
There was no trace here of Sophy ; and as he 
traveled back to town he came to the conclusion 
that it was best to let the matter rest, and wait 
for any chance that time might bring. He had 
ruined his life ; but, until the fatal moment of 
discovery came, he might still act as if he were 
not a married man. A reprieve had been granted 
to him, and he would live as if he were not a 
criminal. 


CHAPTER Y. 

WINNING THE WOELD. 

Sidney Martin kept his resolve. He blotted 
out that fatal mistake he had made. Above it 
he built a fair edifice of energy, integrity, and 
honor. His uncle’s heart delighted in him, and 
he won golden opinions from all his uncle’s old 
friends. When John Martin died, he left Sidney 
not only his share as head of the firm, but landed 
estates in Yorkshire bringing in some thousands 
a year — all entailed upon his next heir male. 

It was a brilliant position for a man under 
thirty, but no one could have stepped into it with 
more dignity and grace than did Sidney Martin. 
His co-executor was his uncle’s old friend. Colo- 
nel Cleveland, who had lived chiefly abroad for 
the last ten years, and who naturally left every- 
thing in his hands. There were a few compli- 
mentary legacies, and some pensions left to old 
servants. Sidney Avas munificent in his payment 
of these bequests, adding gifts of his own to them 
as he paid them to his uncle’ s poorer legatees. On 
his cousin, George Martin, he settled at once the 
sum of £10,000, and gave £5000 each to George’s 
married sisters. Their gratitude was very mod- 
erately expressed, but George’s feeling of obliga^ 


WINNING THE WORLD. 


37 


tion to his cousin was sincere and deep. This 
provision would enable him to marry without 
longer waiting for a living. At present he was a 
curate in the East of London, with the modest 
stipend of £100 a year. 

By this time Sophy, and that boyish error of 
his, had almost slipped out of his memory. His 
life had been very full since then, and he had 
passed from boyhood into manhood. He had 
devoted himself with keen interest to his uncle’s 
business ; and, in the close emulation of a vast- 
reaching commerce, stretching out its hands to 
the farthest region of the habitable globe, he had 
ceased to be conscious of the peril ever hanging 
over his head as long as his uncle lived. Now 
his uncle’s death altered his position, and it 
would no longer be ruin to him for his disastrous 
marriage to be discovered. But he was in no 
way inclined to confess his early blunder. 

Sidney possessed an unusual degree of energy 
and ardor, and ^these had found ample scope in 
the affairs of his firm. He had traveled almost 
all over the known world, except in the interior 
of the great continents, and he had greatly en- 
joyed his travels. He was not merely a fortune- 
hunter ; he was a close and interested observer 
both of man and nature. He lived very much 
outside of himself, filling his mind with impres- 
sions from without, rather than seeking to under- 
stand and deepen the principles of his own 
nature. There had been a consciousness of a 
hidden sin waiting to be dragged out and re- 


38 


HALF BnOTIIERS. 


pentecl of, which prevented him from looking too 
closely at himself. At eight and twenty he was 
a very different being from the boy, fresh from 
college, who had flung away his future in a rash 
marriage. Yet, with an instinct working almost 
unconsciously within him, he avoided all inti- 
macy and close acquaintance with the women with 
whom he came in contact. His uncle had never 
married, and the establishment had been a bach- 
elor one, but there were families and houses 
enough where Sidney was made effusively wel- 
come. He gained the reputation of being a 
cynical woman-hater. In fact, their society was 
too full of peril for him to enjoy it with an ordi- 
nary degree of pleasure. That buried secret of 
his, over which the grass was growing, must be 
dug up and brought to light if he thought of 
marrying ; and with an intuitive dread of the 
necessary investigations, he shrank from form- 
ing any fresh attachment. At the same time, 
his life hitherto had been too full of other inter- 
ests for him to feel the loss of home ties. 

“All the world tells me you are not a marry- 
ing man, Sidney,” said Colonel Cleveland, one 
evening, when they stood for a minute on the 
steps for their club, before parting for the night. 
Colonel Cleveland had come back to England soon 
after hearing of his old friend’ s death, and several 
interviews had taken place between him and 
Sidney, but he had never invited Sidney to his 
home. 

“ Yes ; I shall remain a bachelor, like my 


WINNING THE WOULD. 


39 


uncle, said Sidney, with a pleasant smile, “and 
adopt one of George Martin’s boys, as Sir 
John adopted me. There’s less responsibility 
than with sons of one’s own.” 

“If that’s true, you may come and see my 
daughter Margaret,” replied Colonel Cleveland, 
“ and I put you on your honor. She is all I 
have, is Margaret, and I want to keep her to my- 
self as long as I can. The child knows hardly 
anybody but me, and she is as hai)py as the day. 
All the women I know pester me to let her come 
out, as they call it. But I say women are best 
at home, and I’m not going to have my one girl 
made into a fashionable fool.” 

“Is there any risk of that?” asked Sidney, 
laughing. 

“Not at present,” he answered; “ but there’s 
no knowing what a girl of twenty might become. 
Leave her in my hands till she’s thirty, and I’ll 
turn her out a sensible woman. She was fond of 
your uncle, Sidney, and he was very fond of her. 
I declare, we might have done you an ill turn if 
we have been more worldly wise. But they had 
not met for years when he died.” 

“You have kept her too much at home,” said 
Sidney. 

“No woman can be kept too much at home,” 
he continued. “ I would have more Eastern cus- 
toms in England if I could, and not suffer women 
to go gadding about in public, blocking up the 
streets, and hindering business in the shops, and 
sowing seeds of mischief wherever they go, 


40 


HALF BROTHERS. 


Busybodies, gossips, tattlers ! ‘ Speaking things 

which they ought not,’ as Paul says, in his wis- 
dom. Margaret is none of them, I can tell you. 
I should keep women back — back. That is their 
place, well in the background, you know. Kind- 
ly treated, of course, and their rights secured, 
only secured by men. Come and see how my 
plan has worked with Margaret.” 

“Certainly, with pleasure,” replied Sidney. 

But he Avas in no hurry to go. There were 
many things to be done a hundredfold more inter- 
esting to him than an interview with an eccen- 
tric man’s childish daughter. He scarcely gave 
Colonel Cleveland’s invitation a second thought. 
Day after day slipped by, and the idea of going 
did not cross his preoccuj^ied mind. Nor did 
Colonel Cleveland recur to the subject of his 
daughter when they met in the city to transact 
necessary business. Possibly he had been 
alarmed at his own rashness. 

But one afternoon a note reached Sidney by 
post. It was written in a hand as clear and 
legible as a clerk’s and Avas quite as brief, and to 
the point. He read it with a smile. 

Sir ; My father, Colonel Cleveland, has met with an accident. 
He bids me ask you if you can come to-night and see him at his 
house ? Margaret Cleveland. 

“No superfluous words here,” he thought; 
“ no empty compliments ; no conventional forms. 
If every Avoman wrote notes like this, a good 
deal of time would be saved. It is like a tele- 
gram.’^ 


CHAPTER YL 

COLONEL CLEVELAND. 


The house where Colonel Cleveland was for 
the present living stood alone on Wimbledon 
Common, surrounded by a large garden, which 
was completely walled in on every side. Sidney 
rode toward it in the twilight of an autumn even- 
ing. A yellow light in the western sky shone 
through the delicate net-work of silver beech 
trees, where a few leaves were still clinging to 
the slender branches. All around him there 
were the forewarnings of the coming winter, and 
the lingering traces of the dead summer. The 
pale gray of the low sky overhead was sad ; and 
sad was the fluttering of the brown leaves as they 
floated to the ground. A robin was singing its 
mournful little song, as if all the other birds had 
forsaken the land, and left it to bear alone the 
burden of song through the winter. A few soli- 
tary ramblers, looking as if they had lost their 
way in the gathering mist, were passing to and 
fro along the sodden iDaths. The scent of dying 
fern filled the air. 

Sidney was the more open to all the impres- 
sions of nature because of his busy life in the 
city. This almost deserted, open common, look- 
41 


42 


HALF BROTHERS. 


ing like a stretch of distant moorland, was all 
the more touching and pathetic to him because an 
hour ago he had been threading his way through 
the crowded labyrinths of London. The yellow 
light shining through the beech stems was more 
lovely, because for half the day his eyes had seen 
nothing but gaslights burning amid the fog. 

He let his horse’s pace fall into a slow walk, 
and lingered to watch the evening star grow 
brighter as the golden glow died out in the west. 
There was little anxiety in his mind about Colo- 
nel Cleveland’s accident. At any rate, for this 
moment he would enjoy the calm and silence of 
nature after the noise and hurry of the day. It 
was a wonderful thing, this stillness of the broad 
heath, and of the quiet heavens above him, throb- 
bing with life and appealing to his inmost soul 
with a strange and delicate appeal. It seemed to 
him as if a voice were speaking, and speaking to 
him from the sky, and the blue mists, and the 
vague shadows, and the silent stars overhead ; 
but what the voice said he did not know. 

“ A little more, and I should be as fanciful as 
a poet,” he said to himself, with a laugh. There 
had been a time when he had thought himself a 
poet, or at least a lover of poetry. But that was 
when he was a boy, before the spell of the world 
had been cast over him ; and before he had 
yielded to a selfish passion which he could not 
altogether forget. 

It was in a very softened mood that he turned 
from the Common into Colonel Cleveland’s 


COLONEL CLEVELAND. 


43 


grounds. He felt almost like a boy again. The 
life led in the city, the keen competition and 
cruel strife for fortune, seemed to him, as it 
had once seemed, to be ignoble, sordid, and bar- 
barous. There were better things than money ; 
things which money could never buy. There was 
something almost pleasant to him in this vague 
disdain he felt for the cares and trammels of busi- 
ness. He was inwardly glad that he was not a 
slave to Mammon. “Not yet,” said conscience, 
entering an unheeded protest. 

He was shown into a library, where a lamp, 
with a shade over it, filled the room with strong 
lights and deep shadows. It was unoccupied; 
but in a minute or two the door opened, and a 
girl entered with a quiet step. She approached 
him with her hand stretched out, as if he were a 
well-known friend, and spoke eagerly with a 
frank, sweet voice, the sweetest voice, he thought 
at the first sound of it, that he had ever heard. 

“ My father wants you so much,” she said. 
“ Oh ! he is so dreadfully hurt.” 

Her face was in shadow, but he could see that 
it was pale and troubled ; her eyelids were a little 
red with weeping, and her mouth quivered. It 
was a lovely face, he felt; and the eyes she lifted 
up to him seemed, like her voice, to be more 
beautiful than any he had ever known. She was 
a tall, slender girl ; and the soft white dress she 
wore hung about her in long and graceful folds. 
He held her hand for a moment or two in a firm 
grasp. 


44 


HALF BROTHERS. 


“ Tell me what I can do for you,” he said in a 
low tone, as if afraid of startling her. 

She met his gaze with an expression on her 
face full of relief and trust. 

‘‘ I am so glad you are come,” she said frankly, 
“my father has been asking for you so often. 
He was thrown on the Common this morning, and 
his back is injured, and he suffers, oh ! so much 
pain. Will you come upstairs and see him at 
once?” 

She led the way, running on before him Avith 
light and eager footsteps, and, AAdien she had 
reached the last step on the staircase, looking 
back ui)on him AAdth the simplicity of a child, 
she opened the door of her father’s room softly, 
and beckoned to him to folio av her. 

“He is longing to see you,” she said in a Ioav 
voice. 

It seemed to Sidney, Avhen he thought of it 
afterward, that he had been so occupied in Avatch- 
ing Margaret’s movements, and listening to her 
voice, that he had hardly seen her father. He 
had an indistinct impression of seeing the gray 
head lying on a pilloAv, and the face drawn Avith 
pain as the injured man tried to stretch out his 
hand to welcome him. It Avas not till Margaret 
had gone aAvay, after kissing her father’s cheek 
fondly, that he came to himself, and could attend 
intelligently to Avhat Colonel Cleveland was 
saying. 

“ The doctors are gone noAv, but they’A^e a poor 
opinion of me, Sidney, a very poor opinion. 


COLONEL CLEVELAND. 


45 


Time, they say, may work wonders. ‘ How much 
time ? ’ I asked. ‘ Three or four years, perhaps,’ 
they said. And I’m to lie like a log for years ! 
Good Heavens ! is life worth living when it is like 
that ?” 

“But they do not always know,” answered 
Sidney, in a voice full of sympathy. “ How can 
they know in so short a time ? This morning you 
were as strong as I am ; and in a few weeks you 
may be nearly as strong as ever, in spite of the 
doctors.” 

“To lie like a log for years,” repeated Colonel 
Cleveland, with a groan, “ and to chain Margaret 
to me! Though she would not mind it, poor 
child. She’d nurse me, without a murmur or a 
sigh, till she was worn out and gray herself. I 
know what sort of a daughter she would be, and 
I am as sorry for her as I am for myself. I’d 
have let her have some pleasure in her life if I’d 
known it was coming to this.” 

“ You must not begin to despair so soon,” said 
Sidney; “it is not possible that anyone can 
judge so quickly of your state. Wait a few days, 
or weeks even, before you give up hope.” 

“But I cannot move,” he answered, with a 
hopeless expression on his face, “I cannot stir 
myself by a hair’s breadth. I feel as if I had 
been turned into stone ; only there’s such dread- 
ful pain. Sidney, what shall I do ? what can I 
do?” 

He broke down into a passionate burst of tears, 
turning his head from side to side, as if seeking 


46 


HALF BROTHERS. 


to hide liis face from sight, but unable to lift his 
hand or to move. Sidney knelt down by the side 
of the bed, and with , as gentle a touch as a 
woman’s wiped the tears away, whispering com- 
forting words into his ear. 

“It is too soon to despair,” he repeated, 
“ much too soon. And if it should be partly true, 
I will do all I can for you, as if I were your son. 
But it cannot be true. It is only for a little while. 
You are bruised and stiff now, but that will wear 
off by degrees. Hold fast to the hope of getting 
over it, for your own sake and Margaret’s.” 

He lingered over Margaret’s name as if it were 
a pleasure to utter it. But he was thinking 
chiefly of her father at this moment. It was a 
pitiful thing to witness a strong man suddenly 
stretched as helpless as a child. Sidney’s 
heart was wrung for him, as he listened to his 
deep-drawn sobs, which gradually ceased, yet 
left heavy sighs, which were as disturbing as the 
sobs. Margaret came in noiselessly and stood 
by the Are at the other end of the room, her face 
turned wistfully toward her father. But she did 
not come nearer to him, and she neither spoke 
nor stirred until he opened his eyes and saw 
her. 

“ Come here, Margaret,” he said. 

She was beside him in a moment, gazing down 
at him with eyes full of tenderness and devotion, 
as if she were ready to give her life for his. He 
looked up at her with something like a smile 
upon his face. 


COLONEL CLEVELAND. 


47 


“Margaret,” lie said, “ I love you more than 
anything else in the world.” 

“Yes, father,” she answered with clasped 
hands and fervent voice, “ and I love you .more 
than anything in the world.” 

“This is my old friend’s adopted son,” he went 
on, glancing from her to Sidney. “John Martin 
trusted him ; so we can trust him. I wish you 
to look upon him as a friend, a trustworthy, 
straightforward, honorable friend. If you should 
ever want advice or help, go to him for it. 
There’s no telling what may happen to me, Mar- 
garet, and I want you to know what to do. I 
shall’ t die any sooner for saying this to you, and 
I shall feel more content.” 

“If it will 'make you any happier,” said Sid- 
ney, “I swear solemnly before Almighty God 
to help your daughter at all times, and to shield 
her from all possible harm, with my own life, if 
needful.” 

To himself, even more than to his listeners, 
there sounded an unusual solemnity in the oath 
he had so involuntarily taken. It seemed a 
pledge to enter upon some high and chivalrous 
vocation for the sake of this unknown girl. It 
imposed upon him an obligation, a boundenduty, 
from which he could never free himself. He felt 
glad of it. A glow of self-approbation suffused 
itself through his soul. He thought of the strong 
vows of allegiance and devotion taken by the 
knights of chivalry, at which it was the modern 
fashion to smile, and he felt astonished at his own 


48 


HALF BEOTUEliS. 


earnestness and warmth. Would Margaret and 
her father see anything absurd in this conduct of 
his ? 

No ; they were as grave as himself. They were 
in deep trouble, and Sidney’s words did not sound 
too serious. They looked at him steadfastly ; 
Margaret’s dark eyes turning from her father to 
him with unaffected and unconscious earnestness. 
She held out her hand to him, and he took it 
reverentially. 

“Yes, father,” she said, “I will go to him 
whenever I Avant advice or help ; I will think of 
him always as my friend.” 

“Go away now, Margaret,” he said. She 
obeyed simply, and without appeal, turning 
round Avith a half smile upon her Avistful face as 
Sidney ojpened the door for her. ‘ ‘ I have brought 
her up on military discipline,” said Colonel Cleve- 
land ; “I’ve taught her to do as she’s told, and 
she will obey me eA^en in my grave. It’s happier 
for Avonien so ; they cannot guide themselves in 
this Avilderness of a world. She’ 11 look to you in 
the same way noAv, if anything happens to me. 
I thought I was dying six hours ago ; and the 
bitterest thought Avas leaving my little girl 
Avitli no counselor. She has got female cousins 
enough, but no trustworthy man belonging to 
her. Now that’s all right, and 3 ^ 011 ’ 11 see to her 
as if you were her brother.” 

“As long as I live,” answered Sidney with 
fervor. 


COLOJSEL CLEVELAND. 


49 


It was after midnight when he rode away over 
the now dark and deserted Common. He was 
conscious that during the last few hours a crisis 
had come into his life ; a difficulty which he had 
long foreseen and carefully avoided. He already 
loved this girl. But had he any right to love 
her? Was he free to win her heart? It was 
more than six years since he had last seen Sophy, 
and not a syllable of news from her had reached 
him. He shrank from letting down a sounding- 
line into the depths of these past years ; it had 
been better to let them lie undisturbed. But 
why had he been such a fool as to marry Sophy 
Goldsmith ? 

The night was dark, but the sky was full of 
stars. Along the high roads crossing the Com- 
mon lamps glimmered here and there, just tracing 
out the route, but leaving the open stretch of 
moorland as dark as if it had been hundreds of 
miles from any artificial light. The bushes and 
brushwood were black ; and here and there lay 
small sinister-looking pools, lurking in treach- 
erous hollows, and catching some gleam of light 
on their surface, which alone revealed them to 
the passers-by. A red gloom hung over London, 
throbbing as if it beat with the pulsations of the 
life underneath it. There were but few country 
sounds breaking the stillness, as there would 
have been on distant moorlands : but now and 
then the shriek of an engine and the rattling of a 
train jarred upon the silence ; and to Sidney, 


50 


HALF BROTHERS. 


when he reined in his horse and listened to it, a 
low roar, unlike any other sound, came from the 
busy and crowded streets stretching for many 
miles eastward. It was past midnight ; and yet 
London was not asleep. 


CHAPTER VII. 

MAKGAKET. 

Maegaeet Cleveland watched Sidney ride 
away until the darkness hid him from sight. He 
was to be her friend. But what perils were there 
in a country like England which could so fill her 
father’s heart with dismay, and induce him to 
commit her welfare so solemnly to a man who 
was an absolute stranger to her ? She was glad 
to have Sidney Martin as a friend ; there was an 
attraction to her in his frank, steadfast face, 
which gave her great pleasure, and inspired a 
perfect confidence in him, the confidence of a 
child. But what was her father afraid of for 
her ? To-day had been the most eventful day of 
her life ; a crowd of emotions, mostly painful 
ones, had invaded the calm of her girlhood. This 
morning she had still been a child ; to-night she 
was a woman. 

How that trouble had come she felt how utterly 
imperfect her training had been to prepare her to 
meet it. She knew nothing of the world. Her 
father had stood between her and it so com- 
pletely, that Avhen he had been brought home 
apparently dying, she had been unable to do any- 
thing, or to summon anyone to his aid. She did 

51 


52 


HALF BROTHERS. 


not know the name of any of his friends whom 
he was in the habit of meeting at his club ; and 
if he had not recovered sufficiently to give her 
Sidney Martin’s name and address, she would 
have known no one to whom she could have 
looked for help in any contingency. 

True, they had been living abroad for some 
years since her mother’s death, and she had felt 
no wish to oppose her father’s plan of keeping 
her aloof from his somewhat distant relations, 
and of excluding |her from all companionship 
except his own. She had been quite satisfied 
with his companionship ; and her faithful and 
loyal nature had accorded a willing obedience to 
his slightest wish. He chose to treat her as a 
child, and she was glad to remain a child. 

But to-night she did not feel sure that this 
mode of life had been a wise one, either for her- 
self or him. Suddenly there had come upon her 
a demand for prompt decision and action, which 
she was unable to meet. She had been obliged 
to stand by and let the servants act for her. It 
was painful to her to feel how helpless she must 
have been if her father had not gained conscious- 
ness enough to whisper to her, “Write at once 
to Sidney Martin and ask him to come.” 

The doctors assured her there was no imme- 
diate danger for her father’s life. Her mind, 
therefore, was at rest upon that point; and these 
other thoughts crowded irresistibly upon her 
serious consideration. It did not occur to her 


MARGARET. 


53 


that her father purposely guarded her from 
making any outer use of her life ; reserving all 
her sweetness, freshness, and girlish charm for 
his own pleasure merely. She had never felt 
herself a prisoner. Yet she knew well she did 
not live as other girls did ; and the balls, con- 
certs, and pleasure parties, of which her father 
spoke with so much scorn, probably would have 
had no attraction for her. But there were duties 
undertaken by other girls in which she had 
longed to share. There were children to teach, 
the poor to visit. “Doing good,” Margaret 
called it, simply and vaguely. “He went about 
doing good,” she murmured, turning away from 
the window, where she had lingered long after 
Sidney was out of sight, and looking up at a 
picture of our Lord, surrounded by the sick 
and poor. “He went about doing good,” she 
repeated. 

Her own loneliness and the immense claims of 
human brotherhood suddenly presented them- 
selves to her aroused mind. Her face lit up with 
a strange enthusiasm. She could not be alone 
while there were so many millions of fellow- 
creatures close by, with natures like her own, 
whom she could help, and who could help her. 
She remembered how her mother had spent her 
life in manifold ministrations to those who were 
in sorrow or trouble of any kind ; and now she 
was herself twenty years of age, and knew nobody 
to help or comfort — except her father. 


54 


HALF BROTHERS. 


She stole softly downstairs to his room, and 
crept across the floor to his bedside. He was 
sleeping, fitfully, the slumber due to a narcotic. 
The trained nurse sent in by the doctor sat by 
watching him, and lifted up her hand to enjoin 
silence. Margaret was not one to break down in 
a useless display of grief, though her heart sank 
heavily as she looked on his beloved face, already 
pallid with pain, and drawn into lines that spoke 
of intense suffering. How old he looked com- 
pared with this morning, when they had started 
off for their morning’s ride across the Common ! 
He was not really old, she thought, not yet fifty ; 
many, many years younger than his friend. Sir 
John Martin, who had died only a few months 
ago. Her father had neither the gray hair nor 
failing strength of an old man. Only a few 
hours ago he had been as full of health and vigor 
as herself. And now he looked utterly prostrate 
and shattered. He moaned in his sleep, and the 
moan went to her very soul. A great rush of 
tenderness to him, almost as if he were a child, 
overflowed her heart. She did not dare to touch 
him lest she should arouse him, but she bent 
down and kissed the pillow on which his head 
lay. Margaret did not sleep that night, literally ; 
though girls of her age rarely pass a whole night 
sleeplessly. Her soul was too wide awake. It 
had been slumbering hitherto, in the calm un- 
eventfulness of monotonous days, and in her 
isolation from companions. She lay in motion- 
less tranquillity on her little white bed, not toss- 


MARGARET. 


55 


ing to and fro as if seeking sleep, but more vividly 
awake tban she had ever felt before. She found 
herself suddenly called upon to live her own life, 
to take upon herself the burden of her own duties. 
The careless unconcern of childhood was over for 
her, she must learn the duties of a woman. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

FRIENDS, NOT LOVERS. 

Colonel Cleveland had the best surgical 
aid and counsel that could be had in London. 
A consultation was held over his case by the 
most eminent surgeons ; his recovery pronounced 
absolutely hopeless. The injury to the spine was 
fatal ; and life could be sustained by the utmost 
care and for only a few years. 

The house on Wimbledon Common, which he 
had rented for a few months, was taken for a term 
of years, as it was thought impossible to remove 
Colonel Cleveland to his house in the country, 
even if he had wished it. But he did not wish 
to banish himself from the near neighborhood of 
London, and of his friends who were able to visit 
him when only a few miles distant. Sidney 
Martin, who transacted all his business, was 
obliged to see him almost daily. Never before 
had Sidney come so near the feeling of having a 
home. When he saw the lights shining through 
the uncurtained windows of Colonel Cleveland’s 
suite of rooms on the first floor, his pace always 
quickened, and his heart beat faster. Margaret 
would be sure to start up at the first sound of his 
horse’s hoofs on the gravel, and run downstairs 


FRIENDS, NOT LOVERS. 


57 


to open the hall-door to him. The pleasant pic- 
ture of her face looking out through the half- 
open door often flashed vividly across his brain 
as he sat in his dark office, with the myriad 
threads of business passing swiftly through his 
skillful hands. Margaret’s little hand stretched 
out to be enfolded in his own; Margaret’s voice 
bidding him welcome ; he would think of these 
as his eye mechanically read his business letters, 
till they brought a glow and a brightness into his 
heart which he had never known before. 

They were friendly only; so he said. He ought 
not to wish for more than her friendship, as mat- 
ters stood. “ That woman,” as he called Sophy 
in his hours of unwelcome reminiscence, had 
never shown any sign of existence. He could 
only hope, with all the strength of a great desire, 
that she was dead ; though to attempt to prove 
it might bring an avalanche of troubles on his 
head. But there was no need to take any step, 
so long as he had no thought of marrying. He 
would ask for nothing from Margaret but friend- 
ship. 

His manner to her was that of an elder brother 
toward a favorite sister. He never sought to see 
lier alone, or to have any private intercourse with 
her. The frank cordiality of his behavior at once 
won her confldence and made her altogether at 
home with him. She knew no other young man ; 
and had no idea that it was the fashion of the 
world to sneer at any simple friendshij) existing 
between a young man and a young woman. Her 


58 


HALF BROTHERS. 


intercourse with him was as simple and as open 
as with her father. 

Margaret soon confided to Sidney her wish to 
know more of her fellow-men, especially those 
who were unfortunate and unhappy. She knew 
she could not herself neglect her father, now 
wholly dependent upon her, for any of the work 
she might once have undertaken. But to please 
her Sidney placed his name on the committees of 
sundry charities, and brought reports of them 
that were both interesting and entertaining 
to her in her seclusion. He was astonished him- 
self to find how full of interest these philan- 
thropic missions were ; and lie threw himself into 
them with a great deal of energy. This new 
phase of his life brought him into closer contact 
with his cousin, George Martin, who was an East 
End curate, and was working diligently among 
the lowest classes of the London poor. Sidney 
brought George to visit Margaret and her father, 
and a warm friendshii:) sprang up among them. 
When Sidney was out of the way, George could 
not extol him too highly. 

He is better to me than most brothers are to 
each other,’’ he said one evening, his ej^es grow- 
ing bright and his voice more animated than 
usual. “The best fellow in the world, is Sidney, 
He does not make any profession of religion, and 
I’m sorry for it, for his life is a Christian life. 
You know his immense business might well make 
him a little careless of the poor ; but it does not. 
He is one of our best workers and helpers. Do 


FRIENDS, NOT LOVERS. 


59 


you know, Colonel Cleveland, lie spends one 
night a week with me, seeking outcasts sleeping 
in the streets ? And he has such wonderful tact 
with them ; he speaks to them really like a 
brother. He has the soul of a missionary ; and 
yet he is as shrewd a man of business as anyone 
in the City. So I hear.” 

When Margaret was alone with him, George 
added still further praises. 

“I am engaged to one of the dearest girls,” he 
said, “but there was no chance of our marrying 
for years ; not till I got a living. But as soon as 
our uncle died, Sidney settled £10,000 upon me ; 
settled it, you know, for fear of my dropping 
it into the gulf at the East End; and Laura’s 
parents have consented to our being married as 
soon as I get my holiday. There never was any- 
one like Sidney.” 

Margaret listened with shining eyes'^and a smil- 
ing face. It seemed wonderful to her that such a 
man as Sidney should have been brought to her 
to be her friend. He looked to her like one who 
went about being good and doing good, lifting 
into a higher region every pursuit in which he 
was engaged ; even the details of his business 
assumed an aspect of romance and dignity when 
he spoke of them. It was a full life, this one of 
Sidney’s ; fuller than that of George, who was 
only a curate, and could never be more than the 
rector of a parish. And as far as a girl could 
share the fullness of his life, he was making her 
share his. She could hardly realize now how 


60 


HALF BROTHELS. 


lier days had passed away before she knew 
him. 

Now and then Colonel Cleveland spared Mar- 
garet to accompany Sidney to some gathering of 
the poor in George Martin’s parish in the East 
End. She could sing well ; and she sang for 
them simple English songs, which the most 
ignorant could understand, and which went home 
to the saddest hearts. There was an inexpres- 
sible charm to Sidney in the unaffected, single- 
hearted, almost childish grace of the girl, as she 
stood facing these poor brothers and sisters of 
hers, and singing Avith her clear, pure voice words 
that she would have found it difficult to speak. 
She was accustomed to dress plainly, and after a 
fashion of her own ; and there was nothing in- 
congruous about her, nothing to excite the envy 
of the poorest. She might have been one of 
themselves, but for the simple refinement and 
unconscious dignity of her bearing. 

Sidney was a good speaker, and could hit upon 
the exact words with which to address any kind 
of audience, without offending the most critical 
taste. His speeches were naturally less religious, 
and more secular, than George Martin’s ; but 
there Avas a kindly, almost brotherly, tone run- 
ning through them which never failed to tell. 
He loved to hear the plaudits that interrupted 
and folio Aved his short addresses ; and to Avatch 
the color mounting in Margaret’s face, and 
the light kindling in her eyes. There were 
moments of supreme pleasure to him in those 


FRIENDS, NOT LOVERS. 61 

dingy and crowded lecture-halls and school- 
rooms. 

“ How fond they are of you ! ” she exclaimed 
one evening, “ and how good you are to them ! ” 

He had been offering a number of small prizes 
for competition, the sum total of which was less 
than what he would have spent in one evening’s 
entertainment in society ; and a tumult of ap- 
plause had followed. He felt himself that he was 
walking in a good path. He enjoyed seeing the 
strange sights that were to be found in unex- 
plored London as much as he had enjoyed the 
strange scenes in foreign lands. How the poor 
lived presented to him an interesting problem, to 
which the usual gatherings of ordinary society 
were flat and dull. George and he went to and 
fro in the slums, doing their utmost to lift here 
and there one victim out of the miry depths. It 
was a pleasure to him to give aid liberally ; a 
pleasure to feel that these poor people were fond 
of him; but a far greater pleasure yet to stand in 
Margaret’s eyes as the champion of the sorrowful 
and neglected. 


CHAPTER IX. 

IS SOPHY ALIVE? 

“Leave Sidney alone with me to-night, Mar- 
garet ; I have business to talk about,” said Colo- 
nel Cleveland one evening, about a year after his 
accident. He had never been able to set his foot 
upon the ground since his fatal fall ; and when 
Martin entered his room, and looked at the 
wasted frame and pallid face of the man who had 
once been so strong and full of life, tears of sym- 
pathy and pity stood in his eyes ; and he grasped 
his thin and meager hand in silence. 

“I want a long talk with you alone,” said 
Colonel Cleveland in a mournful voice. “ Sit 
down, Sidney. Good Heavens ! to think what a 
wreck I am ! And not yet fifty ! I was j ust your 
age when my Margaret was born ; and I never 
guessed what she would grow to be forme. Mar- 
garet will be one-and-twenty next month. She is 
all the world to me.” 

“ And to me ! ” said Sidney to himself. 

“There must be some kind of settlement of 
affairs when she comes of age,” continued her 
father, “and I’m afraid to let her know them. 
I’ve been a bad manager for her. What we are 
living on now is the interest of her mother’s 
money, and the rent of Apley Hall, which I let 


IS SOPHY ALIVE f 


63 


six years ago for seven years. I could not afford 
to live in it any longer. My speculations always 
turned out badly, and Apley is heavily mort- 
gaged. Margaret is not the great heiress the 
world thinks her. Do you think she will care, 
Sidney ? ” 

“ Not a straw,” he answered ; “you need not 
be afraid of Margaret.” 

“God bless her!” said Colonel Cleveland 
sadly. “I fancied I could double her fortune; 
but Margaret doesn’t care about money, or what 
money brings ; and she’ll never think she has 
anything to forgive me. Ought I to tell her all, 
Sidney ?” 

“ Why ?” he asked. “ Women do not under- 
stand about money ; and you could make a gen- 
eral statement that would satisfy her.” 

“I might,” said Colonel Cleveland, sighing 
and falling into a silence which lasted some 
minutes. “Sidney!” he exclaimed at last, 
sharply and hotly, “is it possible you don’t see 
what a treasure my Margaret is? I know you 
have the reimtation of not being a marrying 
man ; and that was why I first ventured to ask 
you to come to see us. But I did not want to lose 
my girl then. Now I want to find somebody to 
take care of my darling when I’m gone. For I’m 
going, going ; every day brings the end nearer. 
In another year I shall be lying in the vault at 
Apley beside her mother, and Margaret will be 
very lonely. Sidney, I thought you were in love 
with my girl.” 


64 


HALF BE0TIIER8. 


Sidney shaded his eyes with his hands, and 
little of his face could be seen. In love with her! 
The phrase seemed poor and commonplace. 
Why ! she was dearer to him than all the world 
besides ; he counted all he had as nothing in 
comparison with her love, if he could win it. 
But the memory of his great mistake stood be- 
tween her and him. The mention of Apley, 
where he had first seen Sophy, brought vividly 
to his mind the narrow street, and the little shop, 
and Sophy’s pretty face as it was when he first 
looked upon it. Oh, what a fool he had been ! 

“ I fancied you loved her,” said Colonel Cleve- 
land in an accent of bitter disappointment as 
Sidney remained silent ; and she is fit to be the 
wife of a prince. It is not the money you care 
about, Sidney ? And such a marriage would 
have pleased your uncle ; he spoke of it more 
than once, for he was very fond of Margaret ; 
only I could not bear to think of such a thing 
then. Surely I can see what she is, though I am 
her father.” 

“She is more than all you think her,” an- 
swered Sidney vehemently. “You cannot value 
her more than I do. It is I who am unworthy. 
God knows I could not put my life beside her 
life — so pure and good and noble.” 

“ Is that ain ” asked her father. “ Of course 
a man’s life cannot be as unsullied as a girl’s. 
One must sow one’s wild oats. Margaret will 
not think you unworthy ; not she. She knows 
nothing of the world, absolutely nothing. It is 


IS SOPlir ALIVE? 


65 


a pure heart and a true one ; and it is yours, if 
I’m not an old blunderliead. Slie loves you, and 
she has never given a thought to any other man. 
Think of that, Sidney ! If you marry her I shall 
die happy.” 

But once more a silence fell between them like 
a cloud. For a minute or two Sidney felt an un- 
utterable joy in the thought that Margaret loved 
him. All at once the utter loneliness of all his 
future years, if he must give her up, flashed 
across him. For when Colonel Cleveland died 
this friendly and intimate intercourse between 
them must cease ; and Margaret Avould in time 
become the wife of some other man. The min- 
gled sweetness and bitterness of this moment 
were almost more than he could bear. Margaret 
loved him, and it was an exquisite happiness to 
know it ; but behind her beloved image stood 
another forbidding his happiness. It was more 
than seven years since he had deserted Sophy ; 
and he had been content to let the time slip 
away, uncertain ^of her fate, and dreading to 
learn that she was still alive. Why had he been 
such a coward ? What could he now say to 
Margaret’s father ? To have that wliicli he most 
longed for j)ressed upon him, and yet be unable 
to accept it, was torture to him. No path seemed 
open to him ; it seemed impossible to confess 
the truth. For in the clear light shining upon 
his conduct at this moment he saw how dast- 
ardly and selfish it had been. lie had forsaken 
a young and friendless girl in a moment of pas 


G6 HALF BROTHERS. 

sion, and bad left her in a strange land, far from 
her own people, when the hour of woman’s 
sharpest peril was at hand. It was a horrible 
thing to have done ; one which no true woman 
could forgive. And how would Margaret look 
upon him if she ever knew the truth ? 

“ I love Margaret,” he said at last in a falter- 
ing voice, “but I cannot speak of it yet ; and I 
cannot think of marriage for a while. Trust me. 
Colonel Cleveland. Margaret shall always find a 
friend in me ; and if ever I can ask her to be my 
wife, it will be the happiest day in my life to 
me.” 

“I regret I mentioned it to you,” answered 
Colonel Cleveland stiffly. 

Sidnej^ left ‘him sooner than usual, and rode 
slowly back over the Common, as he had done 
last autumn, on the night when he first saw Mar- 
garet. But it was a month earlier in the year ; 
and the leaves still hung thick upon the trees, 
which looked black and dense against the sky. 
The birds had not yet forsaken the Common in 
search after winter quarters, and a drowsy twitter 
from the low bushes answered the sound of his 
horse’s hoofs as he rode along. A soft, westerly 
wind was blowing, and bringing with it the fresli 
air from all the open lands lying west of London. 
As he looked round at the house he saw Margaret 
standing on the balcony belonging to her window, 
a tall, slim, graceful figure, dressed in white, 
with the pale moonlight falling on her. His 
heart ached with a deei3 and heavy x)ain. 


IS SOPHr ALIVE? 


67 


“ God bless her and keep her from sorrow/’ he 
said to himself. 

If it was true that Margaret loved him, a bitter 
sorrow lay before her, one of his making. He 
had done wrong in going so frequently to see 
her, and in making so much of her friendship. 
It had been an unconfessed pleasure to them both; 
but he ouglit to have foreseen for her, as well as 
for himself, what danger lay in its indulgence. 
Margaret was not brought into contact with any 
other men, excepting George, who was just mar- 
ried ; and Sidney was obliged to own to himself 
that he had done all he could to win her affection. 
But he repented it now. Margaret’s love could 
only bring her sorrow. 

He could have gone back and confessed to her 
his boyish folly, if it had been mere folly. Had 
Sophy died, he could have told Margaret all 
about it. But what he could not own was that 
for seven years he had left himself in absolute 
ignorance of her fate. No true woman could for- 
give a crime like that. It was a dastardly crime, 
he said to himself. He repented of it bitterly ; 
but for some sins there seems no place of repent- 
ance, though it is sought carefully, with tears. 

Sidney passed the night in close and troubled 
thought. At last the time had come when he 
must turn back to the moment when he aban- 
doned his young wife to her fate ; and he must 
trace out what that fate had been. He must at 
least ascertain whether she was living or dead. 
What he would do if she was living he need not 


C8 


HALF BHOTIIEES. 


yet decide. It was impossible for liiin' to under- 
take this search himself ; a search which ought to 
have been made years before, and without which 
it was hopeless to think of Margaret as his wife. 
But he had an agent at hand to whom he could in- 
trust this diflicult and delicate mission. There 
was a clerk in his office who had been in his uncle’s 
employ for over thirty-five j^ears, to whom had 
been intrusted several important investigations, 
and who had given many proofs of his ability 
and probity. lie would send Trevor to the Am- 
pezzo Valley, where he had left Sox)hy seven 
years ago; giving to him such directions and in- 
dications as were in his power for tracing her 
movements after his desertion of her. 

He arranged and wrote some notes for Trevor’s 
guidance, with shrewd and clear-sighted skill, 
careful not to incriminate himself more than was 
absolutely necessary ; and yet finding himself 
compelled to admit more than it was wise for any 
man save himself to know. He Avas conscious 
that he was i)lacing too close a confidence in his 
clerk’s hands, and might have to pay heavily for 
it in years to come. But he must run the risk ; 
there Avas no alternative. He could not carry 
tlirough these inv^estigations in i^erson ; and the 
time had come Avhen he must learn the fate of his 
young Avife. 

“Take the next train to Paris, Trevor,” he 
said, the folloAAung moi'ning, giving to him a 
sealed letter ; “ those are your instructions, and 
you can study them on your way.” 


CHAPTER X. 

CIIIARA. 


Trevor was thirteen years of age when he 
entered the office of Martin, Swansea & Co., 'and 
occupied one of the lowest places in the house. 
But luckily for him Sir John Martin had ^taken 
a fancy to the shai’ij-looking lad, and had given 
him a good commercial education. He had a 
sx)ecial faculty for learning languages ; and from 
time to time had been sent to most of the foreign 
branches of the shipping agency, thus acquiring 
a practical knowledge of many [of the European 
dialects ; an acquirement exceedingly useful to 
him. He had risen to the position almost of a 
confidential clerk, and received a good salary, 
but he had not been promoted to any post 
of authority in the house. His ambition had 
always been to be at the head of one of the 
branches of the business ; but the attainment of 
this end seemed farther away f]*om liim now Sir 
John Martin was dead, and Sidney had succeeded 
him. Trevor was not attaclied to Sidney as he 
had been to his early patron. He had a son 
about the same age as Sidney ; and froin their 
earliest years he had compared his boy’s lot with 
that of his master’s nephew, always grudgingthe 


70 


HALF BROTHEttS. 


brilliant and successful career of the latter, and 
secretly hoping that his uncle might marry and 
have an heir of his own. There was something 
painfully dazzling to him in Sidney’s present 
position ; while his son was nothing more than 
the underpaid usher of a boys’ school. Almost 
unconsciously to himself a deep jealousy and 
hatred of his young master filled his heart ; 
though he never contemplated the idea of quit- 
ting his employment, the salary he drew being 
higher than he could have obtained elsewhere. 

Trevor studied his instructions with profound 
interest and a growing suspicion. He remem- 
bered with perfect distinctness the time that Sid- 
ney was away for a year’s sojourn on the Conti- 
nent before settling down to business. It was 
the year that his boy had entered upon his very 
different walk in life. He [recollected, too, that 
Sidney had come back unexpectedly a month or 
two before his time had expired. It was seven 
years ago ; and these instructions bade him take 
up an event that had occurred seven years ago 
in this remote region, and to follow any clew he 
could find whereby to trace the movements of an 
English girl left alone tliere. Who was it tliat 
had left her alone ? 

Trevor was in no wise inclined to be unfaithful 
to the trust reposed in him ; he would not betray 
his master. But he was quite ready to take 
advantage of any circumstance that would tend 
to promote his own interest. Commercial life 
in the City does not usually foster the highest 


CHIARA. 


11 


principles of honor. Here was plainly a secret, 
which had been lying dormant for some years, 
and which he was commissioned to take up from 
its long slumber. Where there is a secret there 
is generally a profit to be made by the discoverer 
of it. He pushed on toward the Ampezzo Valley, 
and drove through the wondrous beauty and 
grandeur of it with no thought beyond that of 
getting as quickly as possible to Cortina, and 
setting to work on Sidney’s instructions. He 
was, if possible, to ascertain what had become of 
Sophy without referring to any of the authorities 
of the village, such as the parish priest or mayor, 
who might be inclined to ask some inconvenient 
questions. All that he had to discover was to 
wliat place Sophy had gone after leaving Cortina, 
and then to trace her steps from town to town as 
far as possible, without bringing too much notice 
to bear upon his search. 

The little one-horse carriage that he had hired 
at Toblach set him down at the hotel to which 
Sidney’s note had directed him ; and he turned 
at once into tlie rough and comfortless kitchen 
on the ground floor, glad to seat himself on one 
of the high chairs, with his feet on the raised 
liearth. For the cold was keen at this time of 
the year after the sun was down, and it had been 
lost to sight for some hours behind the high rocks 
which hem in the valley on each side. The great 
logs lying on the hearth burnt brightly, and the 
copper pans resting in front of them emitted an 
appetizing fragrance to those who had been long 


72 


HALF BROTHERS. 


in the sharp and frosty air. Trevor would not 
hear of going upstairs to the solitary^dining room, 
where there was neitlier fire nor company. A 
few peasants were sitting patiently at a huge oak 
table ; and a brisk, elderly woman, in a short 
petticoat, and with white sleeves rolled up above 
the elbows, was bustling to and fro, looking into 
the copper cooking-pans, and from time to time 
exchanging a Avord or two with the foreigner 
who made himself so much at home. 

At length the landlord came in, and unlocking 
an old fashioned desk elaborately carved, i3ro- 
diiced a large volume, strongly bound in leather. 
It was the Register, in Avhich all travelers were 
required to enter their names and nationalities, 
the places from whence they came and those to 
Avhich they Avere going, Avdth sundry other par- 
ticulars possibly interesting to the Austrian 
police. Trevor in a leisurely manner entered the 
necessary records, and then turned over the past 
leaves of the great book. At that time there 
Avere not many foreigners passing through the 
Ampezzo Yalley ; and he had no difficulty in 
finding the entries of seven years ago. There lay 
before him, in Sidney’s OAv^n handAvriting, the 
Avords in Italian, ‘‘ Sidney Martin, Avith his Avife.” 

‘AYith his AAufe ! ” muttered Trevor, half 
aloud. 

Chiara AA^as an unlearned Avoman, and could 
not read ; but she Avatched every movement of 
the stranger Avitli sharp and suspicious eyes. 
She kneAv the page on aa hich the young English 


CniARA. 


73 


signore had inscribed bis name seven years ago ; 
and now slie saw the flash of mingled surprise 
and triumph which crossed the face of Trevor as 
he uttered the words, “With his wife.” It was 
necessary to do something ; but it behooved her 
to act cautiously. She drew near to him as he 
bent over the Register, and laid her hand on his 
shoulders, with a touch of homely familiarity in 
no way displeasing. 

“ You are English ? ” she asked. 

“Yes,” he answered. 

“We have not many English here,” she said. 
“Germans, yes, and Italians, yes; but few, few 
English ; two or three in the summer, but not 
every summer.” 

“ English ladies ?” he inquired. 

“ Sometimes,” she answered cautiously. 

“Do you remember a young English gentle- 
man staying here with his wife seven years ago 
last June ?” he asked. 

Chiara paused. Yery swiftly she calculated 
the chances of this Englishman, who could speak 
Italian easily enough to enter into conversation 
with anyone he came across, 'making more in- 
quiries than from herself alone ; and she came 
to the rapid conclusion that it was necessary to 
tell him everything that her neighbors knew. 
Other English foreigners had passed through 
Cortina, but no question had ever been asked 
about these young j^eople before. She must tell 
her tale cautiously, and with reserve. 

“Ah,” she said, with a sigh of recollection, 


74 


HALF BROTHERS. 


“ the young English gentleman, Signore Martino ! 
He was a fine, handsome gentleman ; and the 
young lady was as pretty as a butterfiy. Did 
they belong to you. Signore ? Perhaps she was 
your daughter ? 

“No,” he answered, “ the young lady was no 
daughter of mine.” 

“Is it not possible that the young signore 
was your son? ” she said, looking doubtfully at 
Trevor, who did not seem to her grand enough to 
be the fatlier of the rich young Englishman. 

“No,” he replied curtly. 

It was a perplexing moment for Chiara. Up- 
stairs, in her box secured with two locks, lay the 
ducats and gulden, stamped with the Austrian 
eagle, which she had found in Sophy’s jewel-case. 
She had not parted with one of them, and she 
was adding more gulden to them every month 
from her wages. There was scarcely a richer 
woman than herself in all the Ampezzo Yalley, 
and the thought of it was an ever springing foun- 
tain of satisfaction. But if this foreigner had 
come to claim her treasure ! Her heart sank at 
the mere suspicion of such a calamity ; she could 
not believe that the Englishman had traveled all 
the way from England for anything less than to 
demand the inheritance of the dead woman. It 
would not be possible to pretend that she had 
spent much of the money upon the child ; for 
every person in the village could reckon ui) how 
much his maintenance had cost her, ever since 
his birth. There was no reason why she should 


CHIARA. 


15 


not be made to restore every one of those beloved 
coins, which from time to time she counted over 
with such fervent affection and delight. It was a 
very bitter moment to Chiara. 

“Come,’’ said Trevor, with a smile, showing to 
her a Napoleon lying in the palm of his hand, 
“I see you know all about them. Sit down, 
and tell me simply what you know, and this 
is yours. I am not come here to give you 
trouble.” 

She sat down with her feet on the raised hearth, 
and in a low tone told him the story exactly as 
he would have heard it from any other person in 
the village. It was short and simple. Signore 
Martino had traveled hither with a girl whom 
he called his wife ; but had deserted her about 
three weeks before the birth of their child, leav- 
ing no trace behind him, and never returning to 
inquire after those whom he had forsaken. The 
unhappy girl had died in giving birth to her 
infant, and was buried in the village cemetery. 
He might see the grave in the morning, and the 
priest or the mayor would answer any questions 
he miglit choose to ask. 

“And what became of the child?” Trevor in- 
quired. 

Then Chiara put her apron to her eyes, and re- 
l)lied that she herself had taken charge of the 
poor child, and put him out to nurse with her 
sister, who lived on the mountain, and had chil- 
dren of her own. He was growing a big boy now ; 
but she did not complain of the expense, for after 


76 


HALF BROTHERS. 


tlie costs of the funeral were paid, the mayor 
had permitted her to keep the clothing of the 
young lady, which she had sold to advantage. 
There was still a small sum left ; but only a few 
florins. But now an inquiry was being made, 
^vould the boy be taken off her hands ? 

“lean make no promises,” answered Trevor, 
“ for neither the father nor the mother is related 
to me. But were there no papers left by the 
young lady ? They are of the utmost importance 
to me ; and if you give them up you shall be no 
loser.” 

“There were no papers,” replied Chiara 
promptly. “The night before the Signora died 
she made a great fire in the stove and burned 
bundles of papers. That made me think that 
she was no married wife, poor thing ! There was 
only just money enough to pay the bill of the 
house here and the doctor’s fees and the grave 
in the cemetery. I don’t know what would have 
become of her if she had not died.” 

“Have you nothing that belonged to her?” 
he asked. 

“Just a few little things [left,” she answered ; 
“ I will bring them to you — not down here, where 
everybody can see, but in your bedroom — pres- 
ently.” 

She went away, up to her own attic, as soon as 
supper was laid on the table. There she opened 
her strong box, and, kneeling beside it, held for 
some time in her hand the thick packet which 
Sophy had sealed up and directed the night be- 


CHIARA. 


11 


fore she died. Which would profit her most ? To 
give up these concealed papers, which most likely 
contained an account of all the money and goods 
the Signora had had in her possession, or to keep 
them secret still, and retain this wealth in her 
own hands ? Unless the stranger gave her very 
much more than she was already sure of, it was 
not worth while to expose herself to the indigna- 
tion and contumely of her neighbors, if ever they 
should come to know that she had laid hands 
upon wealth that ought by rights to have been 
placed in the custody of the mayor. No, it was 
safer to keep quiet ; it would be safer to destroy 
these papers, as she had often thought of doing. 
But there was no fire in her room, and it was 
difficult to make away with them unobserved. 
She put it off again, as she had done many times, 
and dropped the packet back into the box, fasten- 
ing it securely. Then she went down to the great 
back bedchamber of the inn, where Sophy had 
died, and laid her handful of ornaments on the 
table before Trevor. He picked them up one by 
one, and looked at them with careful curiosity. 
They were not valuable trinkets — a cameo or two 
from Home, and some small mosaics from Flor- 
ence and glass beads from Venice. Chiara had 
known their value years ago, and had considered 
it worth-while to keep them for her own adorn- 
ment when she went to a festa. The back of one 
of the cameo brooches opened, and Trevor found 
an inscription written on a slip of paper : ‘‘For 
my dear little wife, from Sidney.” Chiara 


'rs 


HALF BROTHERS. 


looked at it almost in a i^nic ; but Trevor trans- 
lated it to her. 

“Is it possible that he was married?’’ said 
Trevor to himself, when Chiara carried away all 
the other trinkets, leaving this brooch in his 
hands, after having received double its value in 
money. He sat long beside the heated stove, 
weighing the probabilities. It was not an un- 
heard-of thing for a youth of one-and-twenty, 
with plenty of money and no one to look after 
him, to travel about these remote and unfre- 
quented regions with a girl who was not by law 
his wife. He did not know enough of Sidney’s 
college career to decide whether or not he would 
be likely to fall into such a crime. But the fact 
that he had deserted this girl, a base and cow- 
ardly action, implied that she had no legal claim 
upon his x)rotection. On the other hand, there 
crossed his mind Sidney’s constant avoidance of 
ordinary social intercourse and avowed disincli- 
nation to marriage, which might be accounted 
for by this girl being already his wedded wife. 
Moreover, his anxiety now to learn her fate was 
greater than it would have been if no binding tie 
was involved in it. He was no longer dependent 
upon his uncle, and ran no risk of disinheritance 
by the discovery of any illicit attachment. If 
Sidney wished to marry now, the necessity of 
ascertaining what had become of the woman he 
had forsaken and lost sight of had become of 
primary importance, supposing her to be legally 
his wife, and the mother of his heir. But who 
could this girl have been ? 


CHAPTER XI. 

AT CORTINA. 

Early in the morning Trevor found his way 
to the cemetery, and the gravedigger, who was 
digging a grave in the dreary and neglected 
quadrangle, pointed out to him a desolate corner, 
where the young Englishwoman lay alone. It 
was strewn over with broken pots and sherds 
among which a few nettles were growing, and 
only a little mound, hardly visible, marked the 
spot where she had been laid in the earth. Even 
Trevor felt his heart stirred a little at the 
thought of this unnamed and uncared-for grave. 
The sexton told him precisely the same story as 
Chiara had done, and was more than satisfied 
with the few kreutzers the foreigner gave to him. 

Following the gravedigger’s directions, Trevor 
took a narrow, winding path, plentifully bestrewn 
with stones, which led up the mountain. His 
brain was too busy with his absorbing discovery 
to allow him to see the magnificent views open- 
ing ux) to him at almost every turn. He might 
as well have been threading his way through the 
crooked streets of the city, so blind and intent 
was he. The great peaks hanging over the valley 
were still burning with the bright colors painted 

79 


80 


HALF BROTHERS. 


on them by the summer sun, before tlie rains and 
snows of winter washed them away, and the pine 
woods through which he j)assed were full of the 
pungent scent of the resinous cones hanging in 
rich clusters on every branch. The channels of 
the mountain torrents were almost dry, and the 
huge bowlders in them were bleached nearly as 
white as ivory. Higher up the air grew very 
keen ; but the sun was hot, until he passed under 
the shadow of a jjrecipitous wall of rock, into a 
long, lateral valley, or hollow, in the slope of the 
mountains, which the sun had ceased to visit, and 
would shine upon no more that year. Then he 
shivered, and looked about him curiously for any 
human habitation. 

He walked for about half a mile in the depress- 
ing chill of this unbroken shadow before he came 
suddenly upon a group of hovels, with neither 
windows nor chimneys, which were hardly to be 
discerned as not forming part of the barren scene 
about them. The low wooden roofs w^ere loaded 
with heavy stones, telling of the tempestuous 
winds which swept the mountain slopes up here. 
But amid the rocks were little patches of sward, 
where a few sheep were browsing, and some 
goats were climbing the higher points to nibble 
any tuft of grass found growing there. A dozen 
children or so were loitering about listlessly until 
they caught sight of the extraordinary apparition 
of a visitor, and then they ran toward him with 
a savage howl that brought some half-clad, red- 
eyed women to the doors of the huts. He made 


AT CORTIKA, 


81 


haste to fight his way through the clamorous 
crew of children, and to address the nearest of 
them. 

“I come from Cortina,” he cried in a loud 
voice, “from Chiara Lello, who says her sister 
lives up here.” 

“That’s Chiara’s sister,” answered the woman, 
pointing to another who stood in a doorway amid 
a cloud of wood smoke. 

Trevor approached her, catching a glimpse of 
the dark and filthy interior of the hut, in which a 
goat and a kid were lying beside the wood fire. 
But he shrank from putting his foot inside it, 
and beckoned to the woman to come forward to 
him. 

“Send these howling children away,” he said. 

She caught up a thong of leather and lashed it 
about them as if there was no other mode of dis- 
persing them, and they scattered out of the way, 
yelping like dogs. Trevor looked on, wondering 
if any one of these almost naked and wholly 
filthy brood could be Sidney Martin's son. 

“Tell me,'’ he said, “which is the English 
boy.” 

Without a word the woman turned into the 
hut, and dragged out a child, with no clothing 
on but a ragged shirt scarcely reaching to his 
knees. The child's eyes were dazzled with the 
light, but they were red and weak ; his skin was 
grimy with thick dirt, and his uncombed hair 
hung in matted tufts about his face and neck. 
No sooner did the other children see him than 


HALF BROTHFLtS. 


they began to howl and yell again ; and the boy, 
tearing himself away from the woman’s grasp, 
sprang like a monkey up the rocks, and having 
reached a safe height, looked down with a savage, 
uncouth grin upon those below him. The other 
children tried in vain to dislodge him by throw- 
ing stones at him ; he had them at an advantage, 
and hit so many of them with the larger stones 
he hurled from above that they gave up the 
attack and went back to their sheep and goats. 

“Good Heavens!” cried Trevor, with a sud- 
den emotion of pity flooding his cold nature, “is 
it possible that this can be Sidney Martin’s son ? ” 

He sat down on a rock and looked around him. 
Here almost all traces of civilization were absent. 
These hovels were not flt for human habitation — 
hardl}^ fit for pigs, he said to himself. Certainly 
there was a hideous crucifix erected in a con- 
spicuous spot ; but it was only a brutal and 
distorted representation of the central fact of 
Christianity, and ax)peared to partake of the 
savagery of its surroundings. There was nothing 
to be seen from this point but a gloomy circle of 
rocks, barren and hard and cold, upon which 
neither tree nor flower grew, and as his eye 
glanced round them it fell upon the nearly naked 
but vigorous form of Sidney’s child, standing 
erect on a peak, and jabbering in some unknown 
and barbarous dialect. Chiara’s sister shook her 
clenched fist at him, and screamed out some 
rough menace. 

“ What do you call the boy ? ” he asked. 


AT CORTINA, 


S3 

“Martino,’’ she said; “that was his father’s 
name.” 

“Does he know anything ? Does he learn any- 
thing?” Trevor inquired. 

“ He knows as much as the rest,” she answered 
sullenly ; “ there’s no schoolmaster ui) here. Be- 
sides, he is the child of heathen parents, though 
our good padre did baptize him. His mother 
was buried like a dog in the cemetery; only 
Chiara and the gravedigger went to her funeral, 
and no masses were said for her. Martino isn’t 
like the child of Christian x)eople. His mother 
is in hell, and his father will go there when he 
dies. It was very good of our padre to have him 
baptized.” 

“ What does he do all day? ” he asked. 

“ He lies by the fire or sits up there out of 
the way on the rock,” she replied; “the other 
children will not play with him, and they are 
right. He’s not a little true Christian like 
them.” 

“Poor little fellow!” cried Trevor passion- 
ately. He had had children of his own, whom 
he loved, and to whom he was a beloved father. 
It appeared monstrous to him that Sidney Mar- 
tin’s son should be here, among these barbarians, 
the object of their tyranny and persecution. If 
he had been any other boy Trevor would have 
borne him away at once, resolved not to leave an 
English-born child to such a fate. But if Sidney 
had actually been married this was his son and 
heir ; heir to the large estates entailed by Sir 


84 


HALF BROTHERS. 


John Martin on Sidney’s eldest son. It was a 
secret of incalculable value to him. What was 
he to do ? 

This was a question not to be decided in a 
hurry. He must first see clearly how to turn it 
most fully to his own advantage. He was not 
altogether a bad man; but he had had a city 
training. Such an avenue to prosperity and 
power had never been open to him before, and he 
must be careful how he took his first step along 
it. 

“Be kind to the little lad,” he said, giving a 
gulden to the w^oman, “and wdien I come back 
you shall have ten of them before I take him 
away.” 

Ten gulden ! The thought of so magnificent a 
sum had never entered into the head of Chiara’s 
sister. She thought a good deal of the hundred 
and fifty kreutzers paid every month by Chiara ; 
but ten gulden all at once ! These English, 
heathen as they were, must be made of money. 
She watched the foreigner as he retraced his way 
along the rocky path until he was quite lost to 
sight. She w^ould indeed be kind to the child of 
people so rich and generous. 

So for a few weeks Martino had the richest 
draught of goat’s milk and the sweetest morsels 
of black bread, and the warmest corner hy the 
fire. But she grew weary of indulgence as the 
months passed by, and the Englishman failed to 
return and redeem his promise. 


CHAPTER XIL 

A HALF CONFESSION. 

Sidney Martin was suffering greatly under 
his fresh burden of anxiety. It seemed to him 
that all his future happiness misery depended 
absolutely upon the result of Trevor’s mission. 
He kex)t away from the house on Wimbledom 
Common, for he dared not trust himself in con- 
versation with Margaret. That he loved her, 
and loved her with the profound, mature passion 
of manhood — how different from his boyish 
fancy ! — made it impossible for him to approach 
her with calm friendliness, as he had done before 
her father’s private talk with him, and his 
avowal that Margaret herself was far from being 
indifferent to him. 

But now he had placed his secret in the hands 
of another, and must be prepared to acknowledge 
his boyish error. He must lose Margaret, if 
Sophy was alive. His imagination was busy in 
painting to him two lives, either of which might 
be his in the immediate future. 

If Sophy was found he must own her as his 
wife, and make her the mistress of his house. 
He pictured her to himself as his wife, with her 
silly, affected, low-bred manners. His inward 

85 


HALF BROTHEBS. 

disgust at his own conduct exaggerated her 
faults, and painted her in the most repulsive col- 
ors. Her relations and friends would certainly 
flock about her; and, though he did not know 
them, he could not think of them as anything 
but ignorant and vulgar ; for they were nothing 
but poor shopkeepers in a little market-town. 
He knew himself too well to resolve upon carry- 
ing on a continual conflict with the woman he 
had made his wife. He would leave her to fol- 
low her own way, while he took his ; but her 
way could not fail to intersect his at some points ; 
and he must be brought into contact with a vul- 
garity and folly which he loathed. His lot must 
be that bitter one of being linked indissolubly 
to a companion always at variance with him. 

But possibly Sophy’s long, persistent silence 
meant the silence of death. If so, his future 
promised to be bright and happy far beyond his 
deserts ; for he frankly acknowledged to his OAvn 
heart that he was unworthy of the prosperous 
happiness Sophy’s death would insure for him. 
With Margaret as his wife, he might push his 
ambition to its farthest goal, and meet with no 
check or shock from her. If she had a fault, it 
was the transparent simplicity which made her 
almost too good for this work-a-day world. Slie 
had a charm which no other woman he knew 
possessed — a charm altogether apart from her 
personal loveliness. He could fancy her an old 
woman with white hair, and dim eyes, and faded- 
face, and yet retaining an indescribable attrac- 


A HALF CONFESSiOlL. 


87 


tion. She would be as beautiful in his eyes 
when she was seventy as she was now. He felt 
he could be a good man indeed if she was always 
at his side. 

Day after day he went up to the City and 
transacted his business, keeping the threads of 
his world-wide enterprises in his own hand, and 
directing them with a clear, shrewd head. But 
he was waiting through all the long hours for 
the letter which would contain his doom. 
Trevor was to write to him the first certain in- 
formation he gathered, and to keep him ac- 
quainted with his progress from day to day. At 
last the letter with the Austrian postmark came, 
and he fastened the door of his office, giving orders 
that he was to be interrupted for no one. 

It was but a few lines, but it told him that 
Trevor had seen the grave where Sophy had lain 
for more than seven years. Sidney had prepared 
himself, as he believed, for any news that might 
reach him, and yet it came upon him like a 
thunderbolt. Poor Sophy ! Still, what a relief it 
was to know she would never trouble him again ! 
And she had been dead all these years, during 
which he had lived in deadly suspense and terror, 
as of one over whom a sword was hanging. How 
foolish he had been I If he had only had the 
courage to make this simple investigation before 
how free and joyous the years he had lost 
would have been. But he had lost these seven 
years of his youth as a penalty for his early 
error, and now the punishment was over. 


88 


HALF BROTHEnA 


He had intended at first to sjiend this even- 
ing alone, in memory of Sophy and her sad fate. 
But, before an hour had passed he grew ac- 
customed to the knowledge that she was dead, 
and felt as if he had known it all these years. 
It had the dimness of an old sorrow. Seven 
years in the grave ! He did not feel that it 
would be any shock to himself, or slight to 
Sophy’s memory, if he yielded to his passionate 
longing to hurry away to Margaret. 

It was already evening when he rode swiftly 
across Wimbledon Common, but it was an hour 
or two before his usual time, and Margaret was 
not waiting for him at the open door. He was 
shown into the library, where he had awaited 
her first appearance to him, now nearly a year 
ago. He had loved her from the first moment he 
saw her, he said to himself ; and every day had 
increased his love. Would to God he was more 
worthy of her ! From the height of his love 
to her he looked down on the low and foolish 
infatuation he had ffelt for Sophy. How could 
it be x>ossible that, even as a boy, he could have 
wasted his affections in such a way? When 
Margaret oi)ened the door, and came in softly, 
with a i3ale face, and eyelids a little red with 
weeping, looking as she did when he first saw 
her, he felt that she was even dearer to him than 
he had been fancying. 

‘‘Sidney!” she said, meeting him with both 
hands outstretched, “ we have missed you more 


A HALF CONFESSION. 


89 


than I can tell. Why have you stayed away so 
long ? My father is so ill ! ” 

“Margaret ! he cried stammering. He could 
not utter a word of all that was in his heart, for 
he had resolved that, if possible, she should never 
know of Sophy’s existence. There would be no 
need for the world to know, and he could make 
it worth while to Trevor to keep the secret. For, 
after all, it was not a secret involving any impor- 
tant issues ; and if the worst came to the worst, 
he could tell Margaret when she was his wife, and 
it did not signify to any other person, excepting 
Margaret’s father. He held her hands fast in a 
strong grasp as he looked at her ; and the color 
came and went on her face, and her eyes fell be- 
fore his gaze. 

“I love you,” he said, at length, with parched 
lips. He had always thought it would be a 
moment of too great happiness when he could 
say these words to Margaret, but it was one of 
heaviness and confusion of soul. He wished now 
that he had waited a little longer, until he could 
get rid of the haunting memory of Sophy. 

“ Y'es,” answered Margaret, in a very low, 
sweet tone, “ and I love yon, Sidney ! ” 

She spoke with the open simplicity of a child, 
but her lips quivered, and the tears stood in lier 
eyes. He folded her in his arms, and for a 
minute or two they were both silent. The heavi- 
ness and bewilderment of his soul passed away 
in the sense of present gladness. All the trouble 


90 


HALF BROTHERS. 


of his old folly was over ; there was no harvest of 
bitterness to reap. He was as free as if he had 
never fallen into any unworthy entanglement. 
And the pure, sweet, true heart of this girl was 
as much his own as if he had never known any 
other love. He declared to himself he never had. 

“ I have never loved any woman but you,” he 
exclaimed aloud, as if he challenged his dead 
wife to contradict liiiU. 

“And I,” she said, looking up into his face 
with a smile, “never thought of loving any man 
but you.” 

He stooped down and kissed her. It was im- 
possible to echo her words. 

“ Let us go and tell my father,” she said, after 
a few minutes had passed by ; “ he is ill, and we 
must not leave him too long alone. He is very 
fond of you, Sidney.”. 

He followed Margaret to the door of her fa- 
ther’s room, but she passed on, beckoning to him 
to go in alone. Colonel Cleveland lay on his 
invalid couch, looking more worn than he had 
done the week before. 

“Welcome back again, Sidney,” he cried out, 
with a faint smile. “I was afraid I had scared 
you away by my imprudence. And I cannot get 
along without you, my friend.” 

“No, no,” he answered ; “I stayed away be- 
cause I could not trust myself with Margaret, 
after what you said.” 

“Not trust yourself with Margaret ! ” repeated 
Colonel Cleveland, 


A HALF CONFESSION. 


91 


“You told me she loved me/’ he replied joy- 
ously, “and I love her as my own soul. But I 
could not feel worthy of her. I will confess all 
to you, but I do not wish her to know. While 
I was yet a mere lad, I contracted a secret and 
most unsuitable marriage ; but the girl died seven 
years ago. I could not all at once ask Margaret 
to become my wife after that.” 

“Are there any children?” inquired Colonel 
Cleveland. 

“No; oh, no ! ” he answered. “How could 
such a matter be kex)t secret if there had been 
any child ? ” 

But, as he spoke, a dread flashed across his 
mind. Was it not possible that Sophy had died 
in giving birth to her child, and the child be still 
alive ? But, if so, Trevor must have heard of it 
when he heard of her death, and he would have 
added this most important item of information in 
his letter. No, Sophy and her child lay together 
in the lonely grave of the Ampezzo cemetery. 
He felt a strange, confused sense of sadness in the 
thought, mingling with the gladness of being sure 
that Margaret loved him. 

“ And you have lived with this secret all these 
years,” said Colonel Cleveland with a grave face. 
“It would have made a difference with my old 
friend if he had known it.” 

“ Yes,” said Sidney frankly ; “he would prob- 
ably have disinherited me.” 

Colonel Cleveland looked keenly into the 
grave, but ingenuous face of the young man, and 


92 


HALF BROTHERS. 


Sidney bore bis gaze with an air of honest regret. 
He felt penitent, and his penitence sat well upon 
him. If a past wrong could be blotted out for- 
ever, Sidney was ready to perform any penance 
that would free himself from its consequences. 
He looked imploringly at Colonel Cleveland. 

“ Don’t let Margaret know,” he entreated. “ I 
want her to be happier with me than any woman 
ever was with any husband. Only one man 
knows it, and he will keep the secret faithfully. 
What good would it do for her to be told of my 
boyish infatuation ? If it was an important 
matter, I would not keep it from her. But, just 
now, she looked into my face and said : ‘ I never 
thought of loving any man but you.’ I would 
have given half my worldly goods to be able to 
say the same.” 

“Then you have spoken to Margaret?” said 
her father. 

“The moment before I came to you,” he 
answered. 

“ And she loves you ?” he continued. 

“Yes,” said Sidney. 

“God bless my Margaret!” cried Colonel 
Cleveland, in tremulous tones. 

“Amen!” said Sidney. “God make me 
worthy of her love ! ” 

There was a slight pause before Colonel Cleve- 
land spoke again. 

“I think it may be as you wish,” he said. 
“ Most young men have some folly to confess; 


A HALF CONFESSION. ' 


93 


and this, though it seems more serious, was only 
a folly, not a crime. The worst part of it is 
keeping it a secret all these years. Seven years, 
did you say \ But it is all over now, and Mar- 
garet, dear child, need never know.” 


CHAPTER XIIL 

RACHEL aOLDSMITH. 


It was still with some anxiety and a lurking 
dread that Trevor might bring ill news to mar 
his happiness, that Sidney awaited his return, 
and could not account for the delay, as one day 
passed after another, and he did not come with 
further details of Sophy’s unhappy end. There 
was a morbid curiosity in his mind to hear all the 
particulars Trevor had gained about the fate of 
his young wife and first-born child ; and, until 
this curiosity was satisfied, Margaret’s love was 
not enough to content him. But, by and by 
there came news of an accident to a diligence 
crossing the Arlberg Pass, which, meeting with 
an early fall of snow, had missed the road and 
been upset over a low precipice. Only one pas- 
senger was killed : his luggage and the papers 
found upon him were forwarded, according to an 
address inside his portmanteau, to the ofiftces 
of Sidney Martin, Swansea, & Co. They came 
direct into Sidney’s own hands. 

The papers conveyed no further information to 
Sidney than Trevor’s letter had done. There 
were only a few lines in a cipher which he 
did not understand, and which he considered 

94 


RACHEL GOLDSMITH. 


95 


it prudent to burn before passing on the 
papers, which had nothing to do with his busi- 
ness, to Trevor’s family. There was a disap- 
pointment to his curiosity in not learning more 
particulars ; but there was a curious sense of de- 
liverance in the fact of poor Trevor’s death, 
which more than counterbalanced this disap- 
pointment. The whole affair was ended now ; 
completely ended. He had no one to fear. The 
only man who could have made use of his secret 
was gone, and out of the way. There could be 
neither an imprudent speech, nor a threat of dis- 
closure, uttered by Trevor. Sidney acted with 
his usual liberality to the widow and children of 
his unfortunate clerk, but he could not grieve 
over an unforeseen death so convenient for his 
own peace of mind. 

There was nothing now to hinder his marriage 
with Margaret. There were settlements to make, 
of course — Apley being settled on Margaret and 
her second son. The eldest son would inherit the 
estates and the large fortune entailed by Sir 
John Martin’s will. On Colonel Cleveland’s 
death Margaret herself would become possessor 
of her mother’s dowry. 

The feeling of freedom with which Sidney could 
now live was too new and too unfamiliar to be 
altogether a happy one. He had scarcely real- 
ized how oppressive had been the burden of 
Sophy’s possible claim upon him. It had 
weighed down his spirit with a constant, yet al- 
most unconscious, repression. He was like a 


96 


HALF BROTHERS. 


man who had worn fetters until he drags his foot 
along the ground, unable to believe that he can 
walk like other men. 

But he was free now ; and he resolved to live 
such a life as would atone for all his early delin- 
quencies. There should be nothing underhand 
or contemx)tible in all his future. His ambition 
could have free course, and he would prove him- 
self worthy of high fortune. With a wife and 
companion like Margaret there would be nothing 
to hinder him from making his way into the 
foremost ranks of the men of his time. 

On the eve of his marriage he brought Mar- 
garet a splendid set of diamonds, expecting to 
see her delight in ornaments so magnificent. 
She took the case from him with a pleased and 
happy smile, and looked at them closely for a. 
few minutes, but she shut the case and laid it 
aside, almost indifferently, he thought. 

‘‘ You do not care for them \ ’’ he said, in some 
disap];)ointment. 

“I care for anything you give to me,” she 
answered softly, ‘ ^ but I do not much value or- 
naments for themselves. I never can care for 
them.” 

“ That is because you do not see other girls 
who wear them,” he replied. “ When you go 
out into society as my wife you will see women 
sparkling with jewelry, and then you will learn 
to care for it.” 

Shall I?” she asked doubtfully; “but it 
seems to me childish. You men do not adorn 


RACHEL COLD SMITH. 


97 


yourselves with jewels, and we should despise 
you if you did. It seems like a relic of barbar- 
ism, akin to the love of savages for glass beads. 
What man could strut about in diamonds and 
not look ridiculous ? ’’ 

“But you are a woman,” he said, laughing. 

“Though surely not more childish than a 
man,” she answered, rising from her low seat, 
and standing beside liim with her serious eyes 
shining into his. “ O Sidney, I wish we were 
poorer people. I should like to work for you, 
as Laura does for George, because tliey are not 
rich. I shall never have any real work to do for 
you ; that would be my idea of happiness. I 
will wear your diamonds. Oh, yes ! But you 
must not make a child of me.” 

“You are not a child, but an angel,” he 
said. 

“Ah ! if you think me an angel,” she replied 
gayly, “it will be very bitter to find out your 
mistake. But still angels are ministering spirits. 
Don’t you think I would rather use my hands in 
sewing for you than have you load them with 
rings ? And my feet would be less weary moving 
up and down on errands for you, than dancing 
through tedious dances with some other man. I 
am sure poor people have ways of happiness that 
we know nothing of.” 

“Margaret,” he said, “ you have grown up too 
much alone. You have missed the wholesome 
companionship of girls of your own rank.” 

“Ah!” she cried, “I’m no longer an angel.” 


08 


HALF BROTHERS. 


She turned away from him rather shyly and 
sadly, he thought, and touched the bell. 

“If you had been a poorer man,’’ she said, 
“ you would have bought me a beautiful flower, 
and I should have worn it now, at once ; and per- 
haps, I might have kissed it when it was faded, 
and put it away as something sacred. But now 
my maid must take charge of these costly things, 
and I cannot keep them for no one else to see.” 

“ Margaret,” he cried, “ I would have brought 
you the loveliest flower in England, if I had 
known ! ” 

As she stood a little way apart from him, with 
downcast eyes, he noticed for the first time that 
she was wearing no flowers. Was it for this rea- 
son ? Had she waited for him to bring one that she 
might carry in her bosom this memorable even- 
ing, and put it away as something sacred, which 
no one should see but herself ? And it would 
have been so if he had been a poor man. For a 
moment he caught a glimpse, through Margaret’s 
eyes, of a happiness simpler, more natural, and 
nobler in the married life than that which lay 
before him and her. He could almost have 
wished himself as i 30 or a man as his cousin 
George, for the sake of it. 

But the door opened in answer to Margaret’s 
ring, and a middle-aged woman entered, whom he 
fancied he knew by sight. Her face was pleasant, 
with traces of prettiness, which had become re- 
fined by thought and by some sadness. Margaret 
put her hand affectionately on her arm. 

‘ ‘ I can never tell you how much I owe to this 


RACHEL GOLDSMITH. 


90 


dear friend of mine,’’ she said, looking \ii) into 
Sidney’s face, “ and I want you to be a friend to 
E-achel Goldsmith.” 

Rachel Goldsmith ! The shock was utterly 
unexpected ; but his nature possessed an in- 
stinctive kindly consideration for his inferiors 
which impelled him to stretch out his hand and 
shake hands with Margaret’s favorite maid. 

“ Since my mother died she has been almost a 
mother to me,” said Margaret. 

“I love my young lady as much as I could 
love a child of my own, sir,” said Rachel, looking 
at him with eyes so much like Sophy’s he felt 
that she must read the secret so jealously 
guarded in his heart. There was a keen reproach 
to him in her gaze, and in the air of sadness 
which rested on her face. She took up the case 
of diamonds and left them again alone. 

“I must tell you something about Rachel,” 
said Margaret, as soon as she was gone. ‘‘Her 
people live at Apley ; and her brother is my 
father’s saddler. He had one daughter, about 
six years older than me ; a very pretty girl ; quite 
a lovely face she had. But you may some time 
have seen her when you were a boy, and came to 
Apley.” 

“No,” he answered, hardly knowing what he 
said. 

“ Everybody admired her,” Margaret went on, 
“and her two aunts doted on her. They sent her 
to a boarding-school ; and then she went out as a 
nursery governess. But just after she was twenty 
she disappeared.” 


100 


HALF BEOTHEMS. 


Margaret paused, but Sidney said nothing. 

“ They never found her ; they have not found 
her yet,” she continued. “O Sidney! think 
how dreadful it is to lose anyone you love in such 
a way ! A thousand times worse than dying, for 
then we lay the body in the quiet grave, and the 
soul is in the hands of God ; but what misery and 
degradation she may be suffering.” 

“It is a sad history for you to know, my dar- 
ling,” said Sidney. 

“ Sad for me to know I” she repeated. “I 
suppose so ; it has often made me sad. But what 
must it be to those who love her as much as my 
father loves me ? Since we came to London, 
Rachel has spent many hours in the streets, with 
a faint, very faint hope of coming across her. 
And Rachel is such a good woman ; so wise and 
upright. She could not be a better woman if she 
was a queen.” 

“Do you take her with us to-morrow?” he 
asked ; for he felt as if her presence would cloud 
all his happiness, and become an insupportable 
burden to him. Yet it was too late to make any 
change in the arrangements for their journey. 

“No,” she answered, “I could not leave my 
father without Rachel. Since his accident she 
has been his nurse; and I do not w^ant a maid. 
Rachel has taught me to be independent of her in 
almost every way. Didn’t I say she was a wise 
woman ? ” 

“ Very wise I ” he agreed absently. 


CHAPTER XIY. 


APLEY HALL. 

At first it seemed almost impossible to Sidney 
tliat he could bear the constant presence of Rachel 
Goldsmith, and the intimate relationship that ex- 
isted between her and his wife. There were tones 
in her voice which startled him by recalling 
Sophy’s ; and now and then she used local terms 
and provincialisms which he had never heard any- 
one utter but Sophy. There was a strong resem- 
blance, too, between them ; for Rachel’s face was 
what Sophy’s might have grown to be in middle 
life. It shocked him afresh when he caught sight 
of it unexpectedly. But it had been agreed be- 
fore their marriage that Margaret must not be 
separated from her father ; and for the present 
tliey were all living together in the house Colonel 
Cleveland rented on Wimbledon Common. Ra- 
chel Goldsmith was even more essential to the 
comfort and tranquillity of Colonel Cleveland as 
his nurse, than she was to Margaret’s happiness 
as her maid. It would be impossible to displace 
her ; it might be easier to remove Margaret to a 
dwelling place of their own. 

But as time passed by he grew more accustomed 
to her presence, and it ceased to chafe him. 

101 


102 


HALF BROTHERS. 


Rachel opened her heart to her young lady’s 
husband, and her manner toward him was one of 
admiration and deference. Her somewhat sad 
face brightened when he spoke to her ; and her 
smile was a sweet one, more in the eyes than on 
the lips. Now and then the thought occurred to 
him — that if Sophy had lived this woman would 
have come under his roof as a near relation. But 
Sidney possessed an affectionate nature, capable 
of taking a very real interest in many persons ; 
even if insignificant persons. This woman, Mar- 
garet’s maid and Sophy’s aunt, had a claim upon 
him which he could not ignore. Besides, he had 
resolved before his second marriage that his future 
life should be a noble one ; worthy of Margaret’s 
love and faith in him. It would be a most un- 
worthy act to add to the unknown injury he had 
inflicted on Rachel Goldsmith — the further sor- 
row of separating her from Margaret, whom she 
loved as her own child. 

It was part of the penance he had to pay for 
his boyish fault ; that fault of which he had re- 
pented, he told himself, so bitterly. It was not 
a heavy penance. There was nothing else to 
mar his happiness. 

And Margaret’s happiness would have been 
perfect if her father had not been slowly but 
surely treading the path which led only to the 
grave. Her marriage had opened the world to 
her, and she saw the brightest side of it; for 
Sidney was careful that she should know only 
the best people. His uncle had made but few 


APLEY HALL. 


103 


friends, and he himself had lived in a narrow 
circle. But now, for Margaret’s sake, and the 
gladdening sense of deliverance from a damaging- 
secret, he enlarged the number of his acquaint- 
ances, and used his wealth to gain a position in 
the world which Margaret could enjoy. 

Sir John Martin, though he had made but few 
personal friends, had occupied a prominent place 
in London as a religious and philanthropic man. 
It was not diflBcult to Sidney to regain this posi- 
tion. As long as he had lain under the chance of 
a discovery that would bring him pain, if it did 
not bring him disgrace, he had avoided filling the 
position his uncle had held. But now his past 
life was buried. Margaret’s wishes all lay in the 
direction of active, personal service of her fellow- 
men ; and Sidney’s own nature responded to their 
claims. It made him feel satisfied that the past 
was both past and forgotten, when he found him- 
self recognized as a leader among Christian men. 
And was he not a Christian ? Had any man more 
bitterly repented of his sin ? 

As for Margaret, no question existed in her 
mind about her husband’s right to call himself a 
Christian. It had never been her habit to sit in 
judgment upon others. Religion did not consist 
in the observance of forms, and the keeping of 
times and seasons ; and she had no ready test to 
apply for detection. She knew her father made 
no formal profession of religion ; but she could 
not know how deep and true his love of God 
might be. Sidney went with her regularly to 


104 


HALF BROTHEBS. 


cliurcli ; but the secret intercourse of his soul with 
God was hidden, could not but be hidden from all 
other souls. No spirit can be so near another 
spirit as God is to each. God had given to her 
that which was his greatest earthly gift — the love 
of a good man. 

On the Michaelmas-day after their marriage 
the tenancy of the present occupier of Apley Hall 
expired ; and a few weeks afterward the rector of 
Apley was promoted to a more lucrative benefice, 
and the living, which was in Colonel Cleveland’s 
gift, was vacant. Margaret had this last piece of 
news to tell Sidney when he returned from the 
city. 

“My father wishes to offer the living to your 
cousin George,” she added, “and, Sidney, he 
wishes more than words can tell — to go home to 
Apley before he dies.” Margaret’s voice faltered, 
and the tears glistened in her eyes. 

“ And would you like to go? ” he asked, laying 
his hand fondly on her head. She drew his hand 
down and laid her lips uj)on it before answering. 

“ I was born there,” she said, “and all our 
happy days, before my mother died, were spent 
there. But I would not wish to go if it sep- 
arated me at all from you.” 

Margaret expressed so few desires that Sidney 
could not feel content to ojopose her slightest 
wish. Apley Hall was a beautiful old Elizabethan 
mansion, and was in every way a desirable and 
suitable country house for them. It was proba- 
ble that if he ado]3ted this position which opened 


APLEY HALL. 


105 


to him as a country squire, he might be elected a 
member for one of the neigliboring boroughs, or 
even for the county. To go into Parliament had 
always been a part of his scheme for the future. 
Yet, inwardly, he shrank a little from living so 
near to the home of his dead wife, and in the 
midst of her plebeian relations, wliom he could 
not altogether avoid in so small a country town. 
They must remind him of a past which ought to 
be not only dead, but buried and forgotten. He 
sat silently weighing this question in the balance, 
unable to come to a decision. 

“ It is my birthplace,” said Margaret, in a low 
voice, “and I should like it to be the birthplace 
of our child.” 

“ It shall be so,” he answered, kissing her with 
passionate tenderness. 


CHAPTER XY. 

LIFE AND DEATH. 

It was early in November when Apley Hall was 
ready for their return, after seven years’ absence. 
George Martin, with his wife and child, had 
already taken possession of the Rectory, which 
stood beside the church, just beyond the boun- 
dary of the park, and at a short distance from the 
Hall. Both houses were built of stone, and were 
tine specimens of Elizabethan architecture. The 
walls were toned down to a soft, low gray, on 
which the golden and silvery lichen lay in har- 
monious coloring. Here and there some finely 
trained ivy climbed to the roof, or twined about 
the mullioned windows. The park was richly 
wooded, chiefly with beech trees, which at the 
moment of their return were almost as thick in 
foliage as during the summer, but with every 
shade of brown and yellow on their leaves. On 
one side of the Hall there stretched a long pool, 
nearly large enough to be called a lake, where 
water lilies grew in profusion ; and in whose tran- 
quil surface the bronzed beech trees were clearly 
reflected. Margaret breathed a sigh of perfect 
contentment as she found herself once more at 
home ; and her father lifted up his feeble head 
106 


LIFE AND DEATH. 


107 


and smiled sadly as he gave her a welcome back 
to it. 

The tenantry had wished to give them a noisy 
“ welcome home,” but this Sidney had decisively 
negatived, both on Colonel Cleveland’s account 
and Margaret’s. For in a few weeks after their 
return a son and heir was born. The sight of the 
child seemed to give new life to Colonel Cleveland, 
and the following day he insisted on being carried 
on his invalid couch into Margaret’s room, to see 
how well she was for himself. 

‘‘My darling!” he said, in a loud, excited 
voice, ‘ ‘ I saw you in the first hour of your exist- 
ence, and you have been my treasure ever since ; 
and this little lad will be your treasure.” 

“Yes,” she answered, “ I never thought there 
was such happiness as this. I wish every woman 
in the world were as happy as I am.” 

“Take me away,” he said suddenly, in a low 
voice, to those who had carried him to his daugh- 
ter’s side, “lam dying.” 

We come here upon the most singular part of 
Margaret’s inward life ; the most difficult to nar- 
rate ; the least likely to be understood. 

For the last twenty-four hours she had been 
passing through a series of the most agitating 
emotions, which penetrated the deepest recesses 
of her nature. The birth of her child had touched 
tlie very spring and fountain of love and joy. 
There was an overwhelming sense of rapture to 
her in the consciousness of being a mother, of 
feeling the helpless, breathing, moving baby lying 


108 


HALF BROTHERS. 


in her arras. There was a blending of jhlif illness 
and tenderness, and an exquisite sense of owner- 
ship, in her feelings toward the little creature, 
such as had never entered into her heart to dream 
of. To die for this child would be nothing ; she 
felt she could endure long ages of deeiiest sorrow 
if it could bring him any good in the end. Her 
own personality was gone ; it had entered into 
her child. Henceforth it seemed as if she would 
live and breathe in him ; and his life would be 
far nearer and dearer to her than her own. 

Upon this extraordinary exaltation and happi- 
ness there came the sudden shock of her father’s 
death. She recollected too keenly the sense of 
loss and separation that had fallen upon her 
when her mother died ; when all the old, beloved, 
familiar duties were ended forever; the voice 
silent, the eyes closed. It was so with her father ; 
he was gone from all the conditions of life known 
to her. They told her he was dead. 

A curtain fell, thick and impenetrable, between 
her and the outer world. Her senses no longer 
brought information of what was going on about 
her to her brain ; but her brain did not feel be- 
wildered, or her memory failing. Rather both 
were preternaturally clear and active. Her own 
life, and the lives of others as far as they had 
been in contact with hers, lay before her in 
strange distinctness ; and her judgment, held till 
now in abeyance, was acting keenly and quickly, 
discriminating and condemning or approving, as 
scene after scene passed rapidly in review, The 


LIFE AND DEATH. 


109 


child’s little life of twenty-four hours was clear 
to her ; and all her exquisite joy in having given 
birth to a son. 

Then it seemed to her — but with what words to 
describe it Margaret could never tell — that she 
entered into a light, a glory, a radiance far be- 
yond the brightest sun ; and felt an embrace in 
which her soul lay, as her little child had lain 
upon her bosom ; and there was a throb through 
all her being, as if she felt the beating of God’s 
heart toward her, and it was of an infinite piti- 
fulness and tenderness and sense of ownership in 
her, as she had felt toward her newborn babe. 
And she knew that she was born into another 
world ; and that this was the first moment of life 
in the knowledge of the infinite love of God. 
She was immeasurably dearer to him than her 
earth-born son was to her ; and her joy over him 
was but the faintest symbol of God’s eternal joy 
over her. 

“ Can this be death ? ” she cried aloud, joyously 
and wonderingly ; and Sidney, kneeling beside 
her, felt that the sting of death was in his own 
soul. 

But Margaret did not know that she had 
spoken. The trance, if it was a trance, con- 
tinued. And now the rapture that possessed her 
soul changed a little ; neither failing nor chilling, 
but giving her strength to remember things that 
were full of sorrow. She felt herself present at 
the crucifixion of our Lord. She made her way 
through the crowd to the very foot of the Cross, 


110 


HALF BROTHERS. 


and stood leaning against it, her uplifted hands 
just touching the chilled and bleeding feet. She 
shivered and wept as she touched them. Him 
she could not see ; but all about her were the 
faces of those who were crucifying Him ; ma- 
lignant, curious, stupid, careless, and afar off a 
few mournful ones. All whom she had ever 
known were there ; and Sidney stood among the 
most bitter enemies of our Lord. Her heart felt 
breaking with its burden of grief and anguish, 
and she was saying to herself, “Was there ever 
sorrow like this sorrow?” when, suddenly, like 
a flash of lightning, yet as softly as the dawn of 
the morning, there came upon her the conviction 
that He loved every one of this innumerable crowd 
with the same love that she had just felt was the 
love of God for her. He was their brother, their 
Saviour. Deeper and stronger than pain and 
anguish, infinitely deeper and stronger was His 
love ; and this love was the foundation of that 
joy which no man, however great a sinner, could 
take from him. 

But Margaret could never tell all she then 
knew and felt ; for it seemed to grow dim as she 
returned to earth. There were no words by which 
she could utter it, only tears and sobs of sur- 
passing gladness, which no one could understand. 
And it was but once or twice in her lifetime that 
she tried to tell it ; and then it was to those who 
were afraid of dying. She came back at last to 
this life, as weak and helpless as the child she 
had just borne. Her eyes could hardly bear the 


LIFE AND DEATH. 


Ill 


light, and the faintest sounds seemed loud and 
jarring to her. But she regained her former 
strength day by day, and she was content to take 
up her old life. Only when they spoke cautiously 
and mournfully to her again of her father’s 
death a smile came across her thin, white face. 

“You do not know what it is,” she said, and 
they thought she was delirious again. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

ANDREW GOLDSMITH, SADDLER. 

The little town of Apley consisted mainly 
of one long, narrow, straggling street of old- 
fashioned houses, called the High Street, which 
was silent and deserted on every day except mar- 
ket-days and Sundays. It was out of the direct 
line of any railway, and there was not business 
enough to make a branch line pay. In the small 
old-fashioned shops the tradespeople conducted 
their own business, requiring little aid from paid 
assistants. There were none rich enough to live 
away from their shops, and their intercourse with 
one another was primitive and unconventional. 
The population of the immediate neighborhood 
consisted of the gentry and the townsfolk, with 
no connecting links. 

About the middle of the High Street stood 
Andrew Goldsmith’s little shop, which Sidney 
passed every time he drove to and from the rail- 
way station two miles off. Three stone stex^s, 
hollowed by the tread of feet through many 
years, led up to the shop ; and a small bow win- 
dow hung over the pavement, behind which there 
sat a paid workman pursuing his work fitfully at 

113 


ANDREW GOLDSMITH, SADDLER. Il3 

his own x>leasure. Before Sophy’s mysterious 
disappearance Andrew had always occupied the 
post himself, seldom glancing away from the 
work in hand to notice what was going on in the 
street; but he never sat there now. He had, 
almost unintentionally, hidden himself from his 
neighbors’ gossiping curiosity, until his love of 
seclusion had grown morbid. 

Margaret could not recollect the time when 
this shop had not been a favorite haunt of hers. 
Andrew had made the first saddle for the first 
pony her father gave to her ; and her mother’s 
affection for and trust in Andrew’s sister Rachel 
had brought all the household into close connec- 
tion with her. The romance and mystery of 
Sox)hy’s fate had been the deepest interest of 
Margaret’s girlhood, and was still occasionally 
the subject of perplexed conjecture. Rachel’s 
almost hopeless searches and inquiries, made 
whenever they were in London, kept this interest 
alive, though it naturally lost its intensity. Still 
there was no household in AiDley to which she 
felt so many ties of mutual cares and memories. 

As soon tlien as she was allowed to take so 
long a drive, she felt that Andrew’s house was 
the first to which she must carry her little boy, 
for the sad and sorrow-stricken father to see. 
She had not seen him herself yet, since her re- 
turn to Ajjley a few weeks ago ; she had never 
seen him since Sophy was lost. There would be 
pain for him in their meeting ; but Rachel said 
it would be well to get the pain over. 


114 


HALF BROTHERS. 


A large kitclien lay behind the shop with a 
floor of rich, deep-red tiles, spotlessly clean. The 
big grate, with brass knobs about it shining like 
gold, was filled with gleeds of burning coal from 
the lowest bar to the highest; and the old oak 
chairs with leathern seats, standing in the full 
glow and warmth of the hearth, were polished to 
an extraordinary degree of brightness. Beyond 
the kitchen was a small, dark parlor, with all the 
chairs and the one sofa carefully swathed in 
white covers ; but there was no fire in it, and 
Rachel would not let her sister Mary take Mar- 
garet into it. 

Margaret leaned back in one of the comfortable 
old chairs, with a happy light in her dark eyes, 
as she listened to the two older women admiring 
her child. It was in this exquisitely clean and 
pretty kitchen that she had caught her first 
glimpse of the happiness of a life far below the 
level of her own. As a child she had sometimes 
watched Mary Goldsmith busy herself in getting 
ready a meal for her brother, giving thought and 
affection to her work, while he sat at his saddler’s 
bench in the shop, humming some tune to him- 
self in great peace of heart. It seemed to Mar- 
garet as she sat now on the cozy hearth, and 
glanced round at the willow-pattern plates shin- 
ing on the dresser-shelves, and the polished sur- 
face of the copper warming-pan hanging against 
the wall, and the tall old Chippendale clock in 
the corner, and the little collection of well-read 
books lying on the broad window-sill, that she 


ANDREW GOLDSMITH, SADDLER. 1 15 

could make life very dear and pleasant to Sidney 
with no other materials than those about her. 

But under all the chatter of Rachel and Mary 
Goldsmith her ear caught the sound of a voice 
half-hushed, yet lamenting with sobs and muffled 
cries of pain, as of one who was passing through 
some sharp access of suffering. It was quite 
close at hand ; not in the little parlor, the door of 
which was close to her seat, and for some time 
she said nothing. But as the cries and moans 
grew more distinct to her ear she could bear to 
listen no longer in silence. 

‘‘It’s my poor brother,” answered Rachel 
sadly, “he’s away in his room, mourning and 
crying for Sophy. His heart’s broken, if one 
may say so, and him alive and strong. He has 
never smiled since Sophy went away.” 
u “ I’d forgotten,” said Margaret, with a rush of 
compassion in her heart toward the unhappy 
father. “O, Rachel, tell him I am here, and 
want to see him so much. You know I have not 
seen him since we left Apley eight years ago.” 

“Just before Sophy was lost,” remarked 
Mary. 

In a few minutes Andrew Goldsmith came 
slowly down the stairs. He was a tall, spare man 
with a vigorous frame and almost a military 
bearing ; for he had belonged to the cavalry of 
the county from his earliest manhood. He was 
not over fifty years of age, but his hair was white, 
and his shoulders bowed like those of a man of 
seventy. So changed he was, and wore such an 


116 


HALF BROTHEUS. 


expression of intense and bitter suffering, that 
Margaret would not have recognized him if he 
had not been in his own house. 

‘‘Andrew/* she said, rising hastily and taking 
her baby into her arms with a young mother’s 
instinctive feeling that the child will interest and 
comfort everyone, “see, I have brought my boy 
to make friends with you, as I did when I was a 
little girl.” 

A gleam of light came into the man’s dull, sad 
eyes, as he laid his fingers gently on the baby’s 
sleeping face. 

“He favors you. Miss Margaret,” he said, 
“ ay ! and your father, the colonel.” 

“We call him Philip, after my father,” replied 
Margaret, with a sorrowful inflection of her sweet 
voice. 

“ May Grod Almighty bless him and keep him 
from bringing you to sorrow ! ” said Andrew. 

“I am willing to bear sorrow for him,” an- 
swered Margaret. 

“ But not from him,” he said. 

“Yes; from him if that must be so,” she re- 
plied, “he will grieve me sometimes, just as we 
also grieve God. But if God bears with us, we 
must bear with one another’s faults, however 
hard it may be.” 

The stern, grave face of Andrew Goldsmith 
unbent a little and quivered, and his strong 
frame trembled as if shaken by some invisible 
force. He sank down on a chair, looking up into 


ANDREW OOLDSMim, SADDLER. Ill 

the pitying faces of the three women, whose eyes 
were so gently bent upon him. 

“ I haven’t seen you since I lost my daughter,” 
he said with a groan, ‘‘and oh! my God, she 
might have been standing as you are, come home 
to show me her baby.” 

It was true. If any stranger could have looked 
in on the little circle, he would have taken Mar- 
garet, in her plain black dress, with her child in 
her arms, for a young mother come back to the 
old fireside to 

. . . tell them all they would have told, 

And bring her babe, and make her boast. 

Till even those that miss’d her most 
Shall count new things as dear as old. 

Margaret felt the sadness of it herself, with a 
profound and keen symi^athy. She hastened to 
give the child back to Kachel, and laid her hand, 
with a gentle and friendly pressure, on Andrew’s 
shoulder. 

“You know I was fond of Sophy,” she said, 
“ and how could I help but grieve over her, when 
I saw Rachel so often troubled ? But why do you 
give up hope ? She may yet come home any day ; 
and perhaps bring a dear child with her. God 
may have given to her a child to be a comfort to 
her. Only God knows.” 

“Ay! He knows,” answered Andrew, “if He 
didn’t know it otherwise, I tell Him every day ; 
every hour of every day, for the cry after her is 


118 


HALF BROTHERS. 


always in my lieart. But it could never be the 
same again. If it was all right with her, would 
she have kept silence over eight years? I had 
only one daughter, like your father ; and she has 
brought me to grief and shame.” 

“ But in one sense it must be right with her,” 
said Margaret, “for God is with her. He has not 
lost sight of her ; and though it may possibly be 
that she has sinned, and is still sinning, yet that 
way also leads to God, when sin is repented of.” 

“ But to think that God sees her in all her deg- 
radation ! ” he cried passionately. ‘ ‘ Oh, if I could 
only find her, and hide her away from all the 
world ! hide her away from God Himself. No, 
no. Miss Margaret ; it’s no comfort to think that 
God Almighty sees my daughter in her sin and 
shame. And that man who robbed me of my only 
child — 0 Lord, set Thou a wicked man over 
him, and let Satan stand at his right hand. 
When he shall be judged, let him be condemned ; 
and let his prayer be turned into sin. Let his 
children be fatherless, and his wife a widow. Let 
his children be continually vagabonds. Let the 
iniquity of his fathers be remembered by the 
Lord, and let not the sin of his mother be blotted 
out. As he loved cursing, let it come ” 

“Oh, hush, hush ! ” cried Margaret, breaking 
in upon his rapid and vehement utterance with 
difficulty, while the tears streamed down her 
face, “oh, be silent! It is a terrible thing to 
utter these words as a prayer to God. For God 
loves us all ; even him whom you are cursing. 


ANDREW OOLDSMim, SADDLER. 


119 


Some day you will say, ‘ Father, forgive him ; 
he did not know what he was doing.’ ” 

“ Never ! ” he exclaimed, lifting up his hag- 
gard face, and fastening his bloodshot eyes upon 
her; “but I oughtn’t to trouble you. It was 
only because the sight of you made me think so 
keen of her that’s lost. All the town is glad to 
have you back again. Miss Margaret, for your 
own sake and the colonel’s sake. But it will be 
different from the old days.” 

“ You’ll be as fond of my boy as you were of 
me? ” she asked. 

“ Ay, may be,” he answered. 

“ And my husband? ” she added. 

“ Andrew’s never seen Mr. Martin,” put in 
Mary Goldsmith ; “he’s never crossed the church 
door since Sophy ran away ; and he never sits in 
the shop now, where folks can see him at his 
work. He spends his time mostly seeking after 
her, anywhere that he can find a clew ; and he 
sits up half his nights with the sick and 
dying.” 

“Because my nights are sleepless, or full of 
terror,” he interrupted, “ and my heart is sorer 
by night than by day. And poor folks that 
cannot pay for nurses are glad to have me near 
at hand ; and the dying know I’m not afraid of 
death, but seek it as one seeks after hidden 
treasure, so they hold my hand in theirs till they 
step into the outer darkness, knowing I would 
gladly take that step for them. I tell them it is 
better to die than to live ; and they half believe 


120 


HALF BROTHERS. 


me. They take messages for me into the next 
world ! ’’ 

‘‘Messages ! ” repeated Margaret. 

“Ay,” he continued, “to tell Sophy, if she’s 
there, to send me some sign ; but no sign comes. 
So she must be living still ; and I shall know 
what has become of her, and where she is, some 
day.” 

Margaret did not feel it possible to combat this 
notion of Andrew’s, though she looked anxiously 
from him to his sisters. George Martin had re- 
cently settled in at the Rectory, and begun his 
pastoral care of his country parish ; and she 
wondered if he could not in any way turn the 
deep current of this man’s grief, which was 
threatening him, she feared, with insanity. 

“ Has our cousin, the new rector, been to see 
you yet ? ” she inquired of Mary. 

.“Yes,” she answered; “ and Andrew’s prom- 
ised to go to church again next Sunday.” 

“ I shall be there,” said Margaret gladly, 
“ and I shall look to see you in yonr pew, An- 
drew. I shall miss you if you are not there.” 

“ I will be there. Miss Margaret,” he answered. 

The parish church of Apley was a small Nor- 
man edifice built near the park gates. A square 
pew in the chancel belonged to the Hall, and a 
long narrow aisle with small pews on each side 
led down to the western door. When Sidney 
took his place, with Margaret, in the Hall pew on 
the following Monday, he saw, just beyond the 
reading desk, a white-headed man, Avho was evi- 


ANDREW G0LD8MITU, SADDLER. 121 

deiitly still in tlie prime of manhood, with a 
strong and muscular frame, but with a face ex- 
pressive of heart-broken sadness. It was an omi- 
nous face, dark and despondent, with a fire burn- 
ing in the deep-set eyes that seemed almost like 
the glow of madness. So striking was this man’s 
appearance that, before the service began, Sidney 
whispered to Margaret : 

Who is that man in the pew by the reading- 
desk ? ” 

‘‘ Eachel’s brother,” she answered, “ the father 
of the girl that is lost.” 

It was the 22d day of the month ; and Sidney, 
whose thoughts were wandering, suddenly found 
himself reading, with mechanical exactness, the 
terrible curses of the Psalms for the day, which 
Andrew Goldsmith was uttering with intense 
earnestness, as if the sacredness of the place 
added force to their vindictiveness. Margaret’s 
head was bent, and the tears were dropping 
slowly on her open book ; but Sidney scarcely 
noticed her emotion. There was an indescribable 
horror to him in this sight of the despairing face 
of Sophy’s father ; and in the penetrating dis- 
tinctness of his deej) voice, as he called upon God 
to pour down curses upon his enemy. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Andrew’s friend. 

The little town soon felt the difference between 
having the Hall occupied by its owners and ten- 
anted by persons who had no interest in the place. 
Margaret knew most of the families living in 
Apley, for there had not been many changes dur- 
ing her absence ; and as a child she had been al- 
lowed free intercourse with the respectable house- 
holders of the town. Now she had returned 
among them, she and the rector had many 
schemes for their social as well as religious im- 
provement. Sidney was liberal, and eager to 
further any wish of Margaret’s. He was even 
willing to take a share in her plans, as far as his 
business gave him time to do so ; and nobody 
could make himself more genial and popular than 
he did. 

The rector’s wife, Laura Martin, who had 
seemed willing to marry George as a poor curate, 
had been very well aware that he was one of the 
two nephews of the wealthy City man. Sir John 
Martin, to whom all his accumulated riches must 
be left. Her chagrin at his being left in poverty 
by his uncle had been extreme ; and she was on 
the point of breaking off her engagement with 

123 


ANDREW^ S FRIEND. 


123 


George Martin, when Sidney, who felt the in- 
justice of his uncle’s will, settled £10,000 on his 
cousin. It was a mere pittance, Laura felt ; but 
it was sufficient to decide her to marry George. 
With the living at Apley their yearly income 
was now nearly £1200 ; and as she was a clever 
woman in household management, she contrived 
to make a good appearance, and was generally 
more expensively dressed than Margaret. She 
made, on the whole, a good country parson’s 
wife, looking well after the affairs of the parish ; 
especially in Margaret’s absence, when she reigned 
lady paramount. It was a sore and bitter vexa- 
tion to her to suffer eclipse when Margaret was 
at Apley ; but the intercourse between the Hall 
and the Rectory was too intimate, and too bene- 
ficial for herself and her children, for her to show 
any sense of mortification. She always spoke of 
Mafgaret as her dearest friend. 

There were already two children at the Rectory, 
Sidney and Richard ; and soon after Philip’s 
birth a girl was born, who was called Phyllis by 
Laura. Already there was a little scheme in 
Laura’s brain, an organ scarcely ever used for 
any other function than scheming. Why should 
not this little girl of hers become the wife of Sid- 
ney’s son and heir? It was a pleasant pastime 
to build castles in the air, on the foundation of 
this unspoken wish. 

Something of the gloom which was threatening 
Andrew Goldsmith’s reason was removed by 
Margaret’s return to Apley, and the in- 


124 


HALF BROTHERS. 


terest taken in him and his sorrow by her and 
the rector. They frequently called upon him to 
render some service ; and little by little he re- 
gained the position of importance he had once 
held among the townspeople, though his influ- 
ence was now exercised more on religious than 
political subjects. He was superior to his neigh- 
bors in intellect ; and he had the gift of speech, 
being able to address them with a somewhat un- 
cultured eloquence, but in a manner that went 
home to their hearts and understandings. His 
life ran in more healthy currents, and there were 
times when K-achel hoped he would overcome the 
deep depression which had followed upon Sophy’s 
mysterious disappearance. 

The person to whom of all others Andrew 
Goldsmith attached himself, in this partial re- 
vival of his old life, was Sidney Martin. Sidney, 
unconsciously perhaps, addressed the sorrow- 
stricken man, who was bearing the burden of the 
sin he had been guilty of, in a tone and manner 
of the deepest sympathy ; as if he knew all his 
burden, and would help him to bear it, though 
he would never speak of it. The sad secret lay 
between them, and both were thinking of it in 
their deepest hearts. There was a strange, inex- 
plicable subtlety in this silent sympathy. The 
moment their eyes met each man saw, as if stand- 
ing between them, Sophy’s girlish figure and 
pretty face ; and Andrew Goldsmith felt, with 
vague and confused instinct, that Sidney looked 
at his grief and loss with different eyes from 


ANDREW'S FRIEND. 


125 


other onlookers. Sidney fathomed his woe with 
a deeper and truer plummet than that with which 
other men could sound it ; and there was a dim 
sense of satisfaction in the feeling that he, who 
had all that earth could give, shared the pain 
that was gnawing his own heart. 

It grew into a habit with Andrew Goldsmith 
to listen for the sound of Sidney’s horse or car- 
riage, and hasten to his shop door in time to lift 
his hat to him as he went by, and to catch the 
subtle gleam of melancholy comprehension in 
Sidney’s passing salutation. There was such a 
link between them as did not exist between any 
other two souls, among all the souls they 
were in contact with ; and it was a dark day with 
Andrew in which he did not see the recognition 
of it in Sidney’s face. 

Sidney would unhesitatingly have called him- 
self the happiest man on earth but for this 
singular and ominous devotion toward him of 
the man he had so deeply injured. His life was 
all that he had ever hoped for ; Margaret a dearer 
wife and better companion than he had even 
dreamed she might be ; his child a sweetness and 
delight to him beyond all words. There was no 
flaw in his prosperity. His sky was clear of all 
but one almost invisible speck. At his gates 
dwelt this man whose mere existence was a per- 
petual reminder of his early blunder ; for Sidney 
would not own. it to be a sin. The friendship of 
this man, he said to himself, was the bitterest pen- 
ance that could be inflicted on him. But for this 


126 


HALF BROTHERS. 


he could have forgotten Sophy altogether. And 
why should he not forget her ? He had done her 
very little wrong ; not the wrong ninety-nine 
men out of a hundred in his position would have 
been guilty of. If he could but escape the sight 
of this unfortunate father of hers, his wn‘ong-do- 
ing would soon cease to trouble him. 

But Sidney could find no easy way of escape. 
He might have insisted on living in or near Lon- 
don; but Margaret was strongly attached to her 
old home, and it happened that all his attempts 
to buy an estate nearer to London fell through. 
The estate bought by his uncle was in Yorkshire ; 
and consequently was too far away for him to 
dwell upon it; and Margaret’s place answered 
all their requirements perfectly. It was not much 
more than an hour’s journey by train from his 
place of business in the City ; and Margaret’s 
position, as the last descendant of an old county 
family, gave them a standing in the county 
which they could not have elsewhere. It had al- 
ways been a part of his ambition for the future 
to become a member of the House of Commons, 
and he was already recognized as the most eligi- 
ble candidate of his party for a place as member 
for the county at the next general election. A 
number of minute threads, gathering in number 
and vigor as each month x^assed^by, wove them- 
selves into a rope which it needed the strength 
of a Samson to break through. 

It was not i^ossible, on the other hand, to dis- 
lodge Andrev/ Goldsmith; nor did Sidney serL 


AKDREW'S FRIEND. 


127 


ously tliink of it. He would not add to the harm 
he had already done him the cruel injury of turn- 
ing him out of his old home, and sending him 
adrift among strangers. He was not in any way 
of a hard and pitiless nature, and his heart was 
full of compunction and kindliness toward An- 
drew Goldsmith. More than once he debated 
with himself whether it would not be Avise to con- 
tide the whole story to the rector, and take his 
counsel as to the question of telling Andrew, or 
of still keeping the fate of Sophy a secret. But 
he could not risk the chance of Margaret know- 
ing it ; and he resolved upon keeping silence and 
bearing his penalty as best he could. 

His eldest boy, Philip, was three years of age ; 
and the second son, Hugh, his mother’s heir and 
the future owner of Apley, was about twelve 
months old, Avhen a vacancy in the representa- 
tion of the county occurred, Avhich gave to Sidney 
a fair chance of being elected, though not with- 
out a close contest. The influence on both sides 
was stretched to the utmost, and party spirit ran 
high. It was like the sound of a trumpet to an 
old war-horse for Andrew Goldsmith. For the 
time being his heavy burden seemed to slip off 
his shoulders, and he became again, as in former 
times, the active and energetic leader of the voters 
in the neighborhood. His shop and the pleasant 
kitchen behind it were fllled from morning to 
night with groups of his neighbors, eagerly dis- 
cussing the question of the coming election. Oc- 
casionally Sidney himself dropped in, with 


128 


HALF BROTHERS. 


Margaret beside him'; and was thus brought into 
closer contact than before with her tenants. For 
Sidney, busy as he was with a iniiltiiilicity of af- 
fairs, left the management of the Apley estate 
almost wholly in his wife’s hands. 

Life was very full to Margaret. She had her 
husband, her children, and her tenants to live for, 
and her desire to serve them was very ardent, to 
minister to their lowest as w^ell as to their highest 
needs. She had the true Christian instinct of 
help-giving. There was one incident of her 
Lord’s life over which her soul brooded, more 
frequently, perhaps, than any other. She saw 
him sitting at the feast with his disciiDles, Judns 
the traitor being one of them, and all of them be- 
ing on the point of forsaking him. He, who was 
King of kings and Lord of lords, who, being in 
the form of Grod, thought it not robbery to be 
equal with God, yet took upon himself the form 
of a servant, and came, not to be ministered unto, 
but to minister. She saw this Jesus rise from 
the table, and lay aside the white robe he was 
wearing for the feast, and pour water into a basin, 
and stoop to wash his disciples’ feet, soiled with 
the dust of the street. It was a symbol, but it 
was also a real action of her Lord’s. What ser- 
vice ought she to shrink from, then, if Christ 
washed his disciples’ feet ? 

Margaret was very much in earnest about her 
husband’s election, and threw herself with all 
her heart into the efforts made to secure it. She 
believed him to be so good and true a man that 


ANDREW’S FRIEND. 


129 


it must be for the welfare of the country for him 
to sit in Parliament. If he was returned it would 
compel them to live more in London ; but that 
was a sacrifice she could make, and she did not 
flinch from the sacrifice. She was in the habit of 
visiting freely and familiarly among all her neigh- 
bors, the poor as well as the rich ; and she had 
not failed in winning their esteem and regard. 
Her canvassing for her husband was everywhere 
successful. 

But the chief factor in the election was Andrew 
Goldsmith, who labored night and day for Sidney 
Martin’s return. When the poll was declared 
Sidney was elected bj^^ a small majority only, and 
everyone said this majority was due to Andrew 
Goldsmith’s influence in his own district, where 
the voters had given their votes as one man. 
Sidney had reached the goal of his ambition, or 
rather he had passed one winning-post to enter 
upon a new path ; and his heart beat high with 
exultation. He was a young man yet, and he 
would win sucli a name as should reflect glory 
upon his two boys and lay the foundation of an 
illustrious family. He had no long line of an- 
cestry to boast of ; his uncle had been a self- 
raised man, and he was still almost unknown. 
But Margaret’s lineage was old enough to com- 
pensate for the newness of his own, and his boys 
should have such a position in the world as few 
others had. Hugh, the youngest, would succeed 
Margaret, and take the name of Cleveland ; but 
Philip would be his heir and nothing should be 


130 


HALF BFOTHFMS. 


lacking in liis career. He would make his name 
illnstrious for his boy’s sake as well as his own. 

These thoughts were flitting through his brain 
as he drove homeward with Margaret and his 
friends, after the declaration of the poll at the 
county town. It was a very bright hour for him. 
But within a few miles of Apley they were met 
by a procession of his wife’s tenants coming out 
to congratulate him, with Andrew Goldsmith on 
horseback at their head. There was something 
very striking in the appearance of the vigorous, 
soldierly, white-headed man, as he came up to 
the side of the carriage to act as spokesman for 
the crowd behind. He sat his horse well, as a 
member of the cavalry troop must do ; and his 
deep-set eyes glowed with pride and affection. 
His pale, sad face was transfigured for the time ; 
for this was the happiest moment he had known 
for years. Sidney practically owed his election 
to him ; and it was some return, he thought, for 
all the kindness he had received from him and 
Margaret. 

It was a singular and bitter trial to Sidney to 
stretch out his hand and clasp the hand of his 
father-in-law. If this crowd only knew the rela- 
tionship that existed between him and the man 
they had chosen for their spokesman, their 
cheers would turn into execrations. He had 
never shaken hands with him before ; for though 
he had visited Andrew’s house frequently during 
the last few weeks, the latter knew his place too 
well to push himself forward so as to comj^el 


ANDUEW^S miEKb. 


131 


Sidney to such a friendly greeting. But now, at 
this juncture, nothing was more natural than 
that these two men, forgetting the differences of 
rank, should clasp each other’s hands in token 
of a victory won by both. 

It was a strong grip that the saddler gave to 
his friend Sidney Martin, and spoke of all the 
subtle, indefinable sympathy that existed between 
them. Margaret's eyes filled with happy tears. 
So long had she felt the gloom of this man’s 
deep sorrow that her heart was filled with glad- 
ness to see him escaping from its chain. 

“It’s you I have to thank for my election,. 
Goldsmith,” said Sidney, glad to get his hand 
released from his painful grasp. 

“We’ve all done our best, sir,” he answered, 
“and we are come to meet you, and say not one 
of us has known a prouder day than this ; a 
proud day and a joyful day it is. And we pray 
Almighty God, every man among us, that he will 
bless you with all the blessings of this life, and 
preserve your precious life for many, many years. 
And that you may live to be Prime Minister,” 
he added with a tone of humor in his grave voice. 
There was a tremendous chorus of “Hurrahs ! ” 
and a great deal of laughter. Prime Minister ! 
Yes ; that was what they would all like. On 
Andrew Goldsmith’s face there came a quiver, as 
if his features so long set in sad despair were 
attempting to smile, and might succeed if many 
more such joyous occasions came. 

Sidney answered shortly and pleasantly, and 


132 


HALF BROTHERS. 


the procession fell behind the carriages. It was 
only as they passed along the High Street that 
Andrew Goldsmith, looking at his little shop, 
and seeing its doorway and windows empty, 
while every other house was filled with women 
and children, remembered too vividly the mystery 
surrounding the fate of his own daughter. He 
dropped behind in the procession as it passed on 
to Apley Hall ; and when Sidney looked for him 
in vain, he felt a keen sense of relief in Andrew’s 
absence. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 
lauka’s scheme. 

The rector and Margaret continued to be fast 
friends, and the intercourse between the Hall 
and the Rectory was of the most intimate kind. 
The children of either house scarcely knew which 
was their home. The rector was a high-minded, 
unworldly man, altogether untouched by ambi- 
tion or the love of money ; there was perhaps a 
shade of indolence in his temperament, which 
made him less likely to feel the spur of ambition. 
Margaret and he understood one another better 
than any others understood them. Moreover, his 
genuine admiration, and his strong affection for 
her husband, added much to her happiness. For 
now and then, with the persistent recurrence of 
doubt, a misgiving crossed Margaret’ s“mind that 
Sidney was not exactly a Christian in the sense 
she was. Hot that he was in any degree negli- 
gent in observing the outward duties of religion. 
He was a constant attendant at church services ; 
and a more regular communicant than she was 
herself. Day by day his life appeared to be one 
of conscientious continuance in well-doing. He 
was foremost in all philanthropic and religious 
schemes, and worked energetically at them. But 

133 


134 


HALF BnOTHEHS. 


now and then, at rare intervals, a false note 
jarred upon the harmonious and sensitive chords 
of Margaret’s inmost soul; and then there was 
no man’s of her husband so precious to 

her as that of his cousin George, who had been 
brought up with him as a brother, and who never 
doubted that he was one of the best men living. 

As for Sidney, he was well content with him- 
self and his career ; and, as the years passed by, 
he was no longer troubled by qualms of con- 
science. He was spreading himself like a green 
bay tree ; and his “inward thought was to found 
a house that should continue forever, a dwelling- 
place to all generations.” He was increasing the 
glory of his house ; and men praised him because 
he was doing well for himself. He blessed his 
own soul, and fell into the mistake that God was 
blessing him. 

For Sidney almost fully persuaded himself 
that he was a Christian. He accepted what he 
imagined were the doctrines of Christianity. He 
would have signed the thirty-nine Articles of the 
Christian faith as readily as any candidate for 
orders. He had no doubts, or rather he had not 
time to trouble himself with inconvenient ques- 
tions, so he believed that he Avas a believer. 
Often when he Avas listening Avith deep attention 
to some eloquent or touching sermon, he felt a 
thrill of emotion, Avhich he mistook for devotion 
to Christ as his Master. The sins of his youth 
had been repented of and cast behind him ; and 
if one repents is he not forgiven? He gave 


LAURA'S SCHEME. 


135 


largely to the cause of religion, both in time and 
money. He was in no open way self-indulgent. 
If he was not a Christian man, as well as a rich 
man, who then could be saved \ The camel had 
gone through the needle’s eye. 

The training of his sons he left almost entirely 
to Margaret; and she had them brought upas 
simply and hardily as their first cousins at the 
Rectory, boys not born to inherit wealth. No 
differences were made between them ; no extra 
indulgences were allowed to her own children 
because some]day they would be rich men. They 
had the same tutor and the same lessons. When 
Philip was old enough to go to Eton, his cousins, 
Sidney and Dick, were sent with him ; when 
Hugh went, the two younger accompanied him. 
As .they grew up to young manhood they were 
sent in the same manner to Oxford. It was no 
wonder that the rector believed, what he was 
always ready to assert, that Sidney was better 
than a brother to him. But if the rector was 
more than content with his lot, and grateful 
beyond words for Sidney’s generous friendship 
and munificent liberality in the education of his 
four sons, Laura was very far from feeling the 
same satisfaction. She had been willing to 
marry George for love when he was a poor curate, 
especially after Sidney had settled £10,000 upon 
him ; but she could never forget the inequality 
existing between her income and position and 
Margaret’s. Both of them belonged to better 
families than the Martins ; but Margaret was an 


136 


HALF BROTHERS. 


only cliild, and Laura was one of a family of 
eleven children, with so small a dowry that the 
interest of it only found her in dress. She could 
not help feeling that she and Margaret were in 
each other’s places ; Margaret would have been 
perfectly happy as a poor rector’s wife, and she 
would have been perfectly happy as the owner of 
Apley Hall and the wife of a wealthy merchant. 
She was fond of pre-eminence, but she always 
found herself occupying the second place. Mar- 
garet’s splendid generosity, and almost lavish 
expenditure on objects which she considered 
worthy of her time and her money, aroused in 
Laura merely a spirit of envious criticism. The 
economical management of household expenses 
at the Hall, where Margaret would brook no 
wasteful customs, however time-honored, Laura 
pronounced mean. The bountiful hand, which 
gave largely if a gift could be helpful, she called 
ostentatious. George Martin’s sisters, who paid 
annual visits to the Rectory, never failed to fan 
the smoldering tire of her discontent into a flame. 
They always lamented over the small share they 
and their brother had received of their uncle’s 
wealth. 

“Every i)enny was left to Sidney,” the rector 
would say in grieved remonstrance. 

“Then he ought to have halved it,” persisted 
Laura, “at the very least ; half for himself, and 
half for you and your sisters. And he only gave 
you a paltry £10,000 ! It makes one quite mad 
to think of dividing such a mean sum among our 


LAURA'S SCHE:jrE. 


137 


five cliildren. Two thousand apiece ! The por- 
tion of a fanner’s daughter, or a tradesman’s 
son ! Andrew Goldsmith possesses as much as 
that. And think of what Philip and Hugh will 
inherit.” 

“Oh, hush! hush!” answered the rector, 
“ we are rich ; as rich as anyone need be. God 
knows I am ashamed of having all Ave have, 
while so many of his people have scarcely the 
necessaries of life. And, my dear Laura, it 
seems to me that you have all that Margaret al- 
lows herself. Tell me what indulgence she has 
that you lack. If she and Sidney have money, 
they are not spending it on themselves ; they are 
making it a blessing to all about them.” 

“ So should we,” replied Laura sulkily. 

But Laura took care to keep on excellent terms 
with Margaret. Indeed it would have been difli- 
cult for her to quarrel with her. Margaret’s af- 
fection for the rector gathered into its wide em- 
brace all belonging to him ; and his children 
were only a degree less dear to her than her own. 
Phyllis was scarcely a degree less dear, as she 
had no daughter ; and this little girl almost filled 
the place of one. All of them were as much at 
home at the Hall as at the Rectory ; and the 
rector took hardly less interest in Philip and 
Hugh than in his own sons. 

Laura’s scheme with respect to Phyllis grew 
deeper and stronger as the years went on. If 
she could never be more than Mrs. Martin of the 
Rectory, her daughter should be Mrs. Martin of 


138 


HALF BROTHERS. 


Brackenburn ; or if not that, Mrs. Cleveland of 
Apley Hail. One of the two brothers she must 
marry. But Hugh was nearly two years 
younger than Phyllis ; if possible she must be- 
come the wife of Philip. 

She began very early to mold the children to 
her wishes. She made much of Philip, lavish- 
ing upon him praises and indulgences which he 
seldom received from his mother. She left 
Phyllis almost constantly at the Hall, before 
Philip went to Eton, to share his nursery games 
and childish pursuits. Philip was grave and 
serious ; what the townfolk of Apley called “ an 
old-fashioned child”; but Phyllis was like a 
little bird fluttering joyously about the quiet 
nursery, and filling it with childish chatter. She 
could rouse Philip to play and laughter out of 
his gravest moods ; and Margaret was thankful 
to Laura for sparing the child to her. 

“Mother ! ” said Philip, coming one day into 
Margaret’s sitting room, holding Phyllis by the 
hand, while both children looked up to her with 
large and solemn eyes, “mother, may I marry 
Phyllis when I grow up to be a man? Cousin 
Laura says yes. Will you say yes too ? ” 

“My boy,” answered Margaret gravely, yet 
almost unable to conceal a smile, “you cannot 
understand what marriage means. You are only 
a child of seven yet : and marriage is more 
solemn and more important even than death is. 
You know that death is very solemn ? ” 


LAURA'S SCHEME. 


139 


“Yes,’’ said the boy, “it is too high for me 
to understand yet.” 

“ xlnd marriage is still higher,” continued 
Margaret; “you will understand something of 
death first. Some day, when you are years older, 
I will talk to you about marriage, but not now. 
And, Philip), do not talk foolishly about a thing 
that is too high for you to understand.” 

“ ^N'o, mother,” he said gravely. 

“ Phyllis is not your little sister,” she said, 
“but she will be like a sister to you for many 
years to come ; and she will always be your 
friend, if you are good children.” 

It was in keeping with Philip’s thoughtful 
and steadfast nature never again to speak of 
Phyllis as his little wife, or to allow anyone 
about him to do so. But constantly, by a word 
dropped now and again, Laura kept alive in his 
mind the idea that Phyllis would some day be his 
wife. To Phyllis she spoke as if her whole life 
was to be fitted to meet Philip’s wishes. It was 
skillfully and subtly done ; never being so defi- 
nite as to excite opposition in the nature of 
either of them. Year after year Phyllis was 
taught that the one person in the world whom 
she was bound to please was her cousin 
Philip. 

But when Phyllis was fourteen, and Philip, a 
few months older, was an Eton schoolboy, Laura 
thought it wisest to put some little check upon 
their intimacy, which was too much like that of 


140 


HALF BROTHERS. 


brother and sister. Phyllis was at an age when 
a country girl is apt to be something of a hoyden. 
She rode after the hounds with as much spirit 
as her brothers ; could play at cricket as well 
as any of them ; and was an adept at climbing 
trees. She could shoot and fish fairly well, and 
tramped about the country with the boys, never 
owning to fatigue. But her mother [shrewdly 
suspected ^that none of these accomplishments 
would retain their charm for Philip, when he 
entered upon that romantic and sentimental era 
of a young man’s life during which she hoped 
to successfully attach him to Phyllis. If she 
was to be the accomplished and cultivated girl 
likely to attract him then, she must be sent away 
for some years. 

So Phyllis was sent away, coming home for 
her holidays generally when Philip was absent ; 
only meeting for a few days at Christmas just to 
keep them in mind of one another. So well and 
wisely did Laura manage that Margaret did not 
notice that virtually Phyllis was separated both 
from her brothers and her cousins. She only 
felt that the girl, whom she loved very tenderly, 
was undergoing a change which was distasteful 
to her. 

The night before Phyllis left home for the first 
time, her mother went into the little room open- 
ing out of her own bedroom, where the girl had 
slept ever since she was a child. Laura held the 
shaded lamp up to see if she was sleeping, and 
thought with exultation how pretty the face was 


LAURA'S SCHEME. 


141 ^ 


on which the light fell. She put the lamp away 
into the other room, and sat down in the dusk 
by her young daughter. 

‘‘Phyllis,” she said, with her hand resting 
fondly on the girl’s head, “there’s one thing I 
must say to you before you go away to school ; 
but it must be between you and me, a secret. 
You must not speak of it to anybody else ; not 
even to Dick, or your father. You love Philip, 
my darling ? ” 

“Oh, yes, mother!” she answered, “I have 
always loved him.” 

“More than anyone else?” suggested her 
mother. 

“ I think so,” she said, “unless, perhaps, it 
is Dick.” 

“Oh ! you must love Philip more than Dick,” 
replied her mother; “ never think of loving any- 
body as much as Philip. By and by, when he 
is old enough, he will ask you to be his wife ; 
and then your father and I would be happier 
than words can tell.” 

“ That was settled a long while ago,” said 
Phyllis, “as soon as I was born, and you called 
me by a name something like his.” 

“But it was to be kept a profound secret,” 
urged her mother, “ and nobody has ever spoken 
of it since, except me, to you. Of course if you 
and Philip did not like it, no one could force 
you to marry one another.” 

“Nobody could do that in England,” said 
Phyllis, with a wise little laugh, “but don’t you 


^ 142 


HALF BROTHERS. 


be worried, mother ; I do love Philip ; and I 
will marry him.” 

Then you must do all you can to fit yourself 
for him,” pursued Laura anxiously; “he will 
go to Oxford, and Avhen he has been there he 
will not want a romp and a tom-boy about him. 
You must make a lady of yourself. When you 
are his wife, you will be very rich, not a simple 
country parson’s daughter ; and by and by you 
will be Mrs. Martin of Brackenburn. You must 
learn how to fill such a position.” 

“ I must learn to do my duty in that state of 
life into which it may please God to call me,” 
said Phyllis, laughing again. “ Oh, mother, you 
shall see what a fine lady I can make of myself. 
I will say to myself every morning, ‘ Remember 
you are to be Mrs. Martin of Brackenburn ! ’ 
and I will act up to it. I have quite made up 
my mind to marry Philip.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE SON AND HEIR. 

It was four years before Phyllis came to live 
at home again ; and the transformation was com- 
plete. The tom-boy of fourteen, with her excess 
of animal spirits, had developed into a bright and 
dainty girl of eighteen, with a grace and bloom 
about her like that of a flower just opening to 
the light. Her face was prettier, and her figure 
more graceful than even her mother had ex- 
pected them to be. She could sing well, with a 
sweet, clear voice, that suggested the spontane- 
ous joyousness of a song-bird. She seemed fond 
of reading ; but she was still fonder of active 
pursuits. Sidney, who had taken little notice of 
her as a child, felt the charm of this bright, 
companionable young girl, who made Apley so 
niiicli more lively when he came down from his 
busy London life. Hugh was now at Eton, and 
Philip was at Oxford with his cousin Dick. 
There was nothing to suggest caution or anxiety; 
and Phyllis spent more time at the Hall than she 
did at the Rectory. She owned frankly that she 
felt more at home there than in her father’s 
bouse ; and she fell into the position of a 
143 


144 


HALF BROTHERS. 


daughter quite naturally. She was introduced 
to London society under Margaret’s wing ; and 
received there the finishing touches to her edu- 
cation. 

When Philip came home, he fancied he saw in 
his cousin Phyllis precisely the woman he would 
choose to make his wife. \ 

She had grown up for him. The idea that this 
bright, lovely young girl had been destined for 
him from her birth, gave to him a feeling of 
perfect, undisturbed possession, precluding the 
necessity of claiming her, any more than the 
necessity of claiming his mother. Their lives 
were so blended and interwoven that it seemed 
impossible for them to be separated. There was 
no need of speech between them. They knew 
they loved one another ; and that when the right 
hour came they would marry amid the general 
satisfaction and gladness of all their friends. 
Until then they lived for one another in the 
simplest and purest happiness. So Philip felt ; 
and Laura Avas quite content that he should say 
nothing about his love, while he was still under 
age. 

There was no actual concealment, however. 
Phyllis was seldom alone Avith him, for Hugh 
and her own brothers were constantly Avith them. 
When they Avished for quiet converse, they 
sought it usually in Margaret’s presence. She 
saw them reading together, singing together, 
Avalking arm in arm about the gardens and park ; 
but then Phyllis read, and sang, and walked 


THE! SOET ^iVD MEin. 


145 


with all of the other young men, when any of 
them claimed her companionship. Margaret saw 
no difference in her manner or ways ; if there was 
any difference, she was a shade more serious with 
Philip than the rest ; but then Philip himself 
was the most thoughtful of all the youthful 
band. 

In the training of her sons, Margaret had done 
her utmost to make them understand her views 
of life. Wealth and position, she pointed out to 
them, were among the poorest and smallest of 
the gifts of God ; sometimes, seeing that wicked 
men can gain them by evil means, not the gift of 
God at all. Birth was not a much higher thing, 
though that, indeed, must be the gift of God, 
since they had no choice as to the circumstances, 
or the family, into which they were born. Better 
than these were the gifts of intellect ; and Dick, 
who had a genius for mathematics, and Stephen, 
wdth an equally strong bent for science, pos- 
sessed nobler powers than they did. Any great 
talent was better than silver and gold, or rank. 
Good temper alone was worth more than all the 
riches they could possess ; and Phyllis’s bright- 
ness and sweetness placed her higher than a 
duke’s daughter wdio did not possess the same 
qualities. 

“ You will find the richest men among the poor- 
est,” she told them. “If a man is brave, true, 
unselfish, serviceable to his fellow-men, he is 
higher in the sight of God, though he may not 
own a penny, than the wealthiest man in the 


146 


HALF BROTHERS. 


world. God cannot regard gold and land as 
riclies.’’ 

“You pride yourselves on your birtli?” she 
asked them ; “ you forget that you did not choose 
it — God gave it to you. It is a poor gift in itself, 
and perhaps you are the servants to whom the 
Lord could only intrust one or tw^o pounds 
instead of ten. But do not laj- it aside, and hide 
it in a napkin ; use it worthily, and in the next 
life, or perhaps in this life, God will give you 
more and better gifts.” 

“ The best gifts are those we get directly from 
God,” she taught them, “and you must ask him 
for them yourselves — for no man can ask or seek 
these blessings for you — no other hand can knock 
at the gate till it is opened to you— and, what 
your spirit asks, the spirit of God gives. You 
are nearer to God than to me. You are dearer 
to his heart than to mine.” 

Sometimes Sidney, sitting by, while Margaret 
was teaching her boys, would smile to himself at 
her want of worldly wisdom; When she told 
them the loss of money was the smallest loss they 
could suffer, and asked them whether they would 
rather lose their sight, and never more see the 
faces of those they loved ; or their hearing, and 
never again listen to dear voices and the glad 
and solemn sounds of music ; or lose their friends 
by death, her and their father ; and the boys 
would declare with eagerness that they would a 
thousand times rather face the world penniless 
than be bereft of any of these great gifts — then 


THE J^OJSf ANP mm. 


U1 


Sidney would say to himself how much greater 
would be the pity of rich men toward himself if 
he lost his large fortune, than if he lost sight, or 
hearing, or sons, or even this dear wife of his, 
with her unworldly spirit, who was in truth more 
precious to him than all gold and lands ! It was 
sweet to hear Margaret talk in this way, but she 
spoke a language that had no meaning in the 
City. 

Philip took a fairly good place at Oxford, but 
Dick far surpassed him. There had been no 
emulation between the young men, and Philip 
felt no grudge against Dick for his triumph and 
the distinction he earned. Dick’s success had 
been very great, and both the Hall and the Rec- 
tory celebrated it with much rejoicing. Sidney, 
who had borne all the cost of the education of 
George’s sons, was greatly pleased. But he was 
not less pleased that Philip had not distin- 
guished himself in the same vray. There was 
no need for his son and heir to win high honors 
at the university ; he did not wish to see him a 
great mathematician or a fine classical scholar. 
That was all very well for Dick and Stephen, and 
the other boys, who had to earn their own living 
by sheer force of brain. For Philip it was more 
essential that he should be an all-round man. 

In this Sidney was satisfied. Philij^ could do 
all things customary to young men of his station 
and prospects,but he did not specially excel in 
any of them. In his father’s eyes there was in 
him a slight touch of listlessness, the listlessness 


i48 


HALF BROTHERS. 


of certainty. There was a lack of something to 
strive for, which had been no characteristic of 
his own. Sidney could still recall the strain of 
anxiety to retain his uncle’s favor, and the sacri- 
fices he had made, and was ready to make, to 
secure his vast fortune falling to himself. It 
could not be the same with his son. The large 
estate in Yorkshire, which was entailed upon 
him, secured his future, and deprived him at the 
same time of the stimulus of uncertainty. It was 
the same with his younger boy, Hugh. Their 
mother had taught them so to value wealth and 
position that they had no ambition to increase 
either, while their ancestors had taken care they 
should not be compelled to work for their living. 
It was a knot in the silken thread of their lives 
which Sidney could not untie, and was equally 
powerless to cut through. 


CHAPTER XX. 

BRACKENBUKN. 


The large estate in Yorkshire to which Philip 
was heir had been seldom visited by Sidney. Ifc 
was much too far from London to be a place of 
residence for him while he remained in business, 
and Margaret’s house at Apley exactly met all 
their requirements as a country place within a 
short distance from town. The Yorkshire estate 
had been left to an agent, and the house had 
been let for a term of twenty-one years soon after 
his settling upon Apley as their home. Hitherto, 
therefore, it had been little more to them than a 
source of income. The tenant of Brackenburn 
was reported to be an eccentric man, who greatly 
resented the occasional visits of the agent, and 
neither Sidney nor Philip had cared to intrude 
upon him. The house was small, and Sir John 
Martin had left the sum of £50,000 for building 
one more suitable for his heirs. Now that Philip 
was so nearly of age it became a question of some 
importance when and how the new hall should 
be built. Architects were consulted and plans 
drawn up, bringing more forcibly to Philip’s 
mind that he, too, like Hugh, to whom Apley 
would come, was heir to a large property in land. 


149 


150 


HALF BROTHERS. 


The love of land awoke within him. He threw 
himself with ardor into the questions of building 
and planting. The tenant’s lease would expire 
shortly after he came of age, and it was then 
proposed that Philip should take up his abode 
in the old Manor House, and superintend the 
erection of the new mansion. When thinking 
of it, he always thought of Phyllis as being there 
beside him. 

But some months before Philip’s coming of age 
Sidney received a letter from a firm of solicitors 
in York informing him that his tenant, Mr. 
Churchill, was dead, and that he was left sole 
executor of his will, and the guardian of his only 
child; ‘‘having no friend whom I can trust in 
the whole world,” was added. Sidney had seen 
his tenant only a few times, and nothing had 
been said to him of the service thus thrust upon 
him by Mr. Churchill’s will. It Avas a surprise 
and an annoyance to him; but the words, “no 
friend Avhom I can trust in the Avhole world,” 
api)ealed to his and to Margaret’s sympathy, and, 
telegraphing that he Avas starting immediatelj^ 
he set out on his nortliAvard journey. 

“ It is odd,” he said to Margaret before leaving 
her, “that AA^e have no idea whether the only 
child is a son or daughter, or Avhat the amount 
of property left may be. But in any case Ave can 
befriend Mr. Churchill’s only child.” 

It AA^as early morning Avhen Sidney reached the 
little road-side station nearest to Brackenburn, 
and a AA^alk of four miles lay between it and the 


Mackenburn. 


151 


old Manor House. His temperament was still 
alive to all tlie simj)le pleasures of a solitary 
walk like this, at an unwonted hour and in the 
very heart of the country. London lay very far 
away from him. His love of nature had no touch 
of age upon it, and as he sauntered along the 
lanes, with the joyous caroling of little song- 
birds all around him, and the bracing air of the 
dawn caressing his face, he felt almost like a boy 
again. If Margaret had but come with him, his 
enjoyment would have been perfect. The fever 
of city life always running in his veins cooled 
down into an unusual calm and tranquillity, and 
for once he asked himself if his satisfied ambition 
was worth the sacrifice he had made for it. 

The old Manor House of Brackenburn stood at 
the head of a long dale, with wide stretches of 
heather-clad moor rising behind it and lying in 
long curves against the distant horizon. It was 
an old timber house, the heavy beams black with 
age, and the interstices, which had once been 
kept white with frequent lime-washing, were now 
weather-stained and discolored. But the front 
of the old house was hidden under a thick mantle 
of ivy, which had never been touched or trained, 
and which grew in long, luxuriant sprays that 
waved to and fro restlessly in the breeze. A 
stone wall, ten feet high, surrounded the house 
and concealed the lower story, and Sidney found 
it difficult to push open the heavy iron gates, 
which admitted him to the forecourt. The win- 
dows' were still closed with outer wooden shut- 


152 


HALF BROTHM28. 


ters, and the only sign of life was a thin line of 
smoke rising from one of the great stacks of 
chimneys, and floating softly across the blue of 
the morning sky. Sidney rang gently, in order 
not to disturb the household at so early an hour, 
and the door was presently opened by an old 
woman, who appeared with a candle in her hand, 
and led him into a darkened room. He told her 
briefly who he Avas. 

“I’ll call Dorothy to you,” she said as she shut 
the door upon him. 

There was something about being left in this 
way to Avait for some unknoAvn person which 
brought back very vividly to his memory his 
first meeting with Margaret. He could see her 
coming in, and draAving near to him, Avith her 
simple, unconscious grace, and hear her address- 
ing him as frankly as if she had been a little 
child. He had loved her Avith all his heart from 
that moment. Was it possible that it AA^as more 
than tAventy-tAA^o years ago ? It might have been 
but yesterday ; only she was dearer to him noAV, 
and her love Avas more necessary and more pre- 
cious to him. Hoav foolish he was to Avaste so 
much time in business, which might be spent 
in companionship with her. Well, as soon as 
Philip, or Hugh, was ready to take his place, he 
Avould himself relax his pursuit of Avealth and 
poAver. 

He was pacing to and fro in the dark room 
when the door Avas opened timidly, and a young, 
slight girl entered, and stood just Avithin the 


BRACKENBURIl 


153 


doorway, gazing at him. The dim light of the 
single candle hardly reached her, and he could 
only see large dark eyes, looking black in the 
wan pallor of her face, which were fastened upon 
him, partly in terror, and partly in appeal to 
him, like the pathetic gaze of some dumb crea- 
ture doubtful of the reception it will receive. 
She seemed almost to be shrinking away in dread 
of some unkindness, when he approached her as 
she stood trembling just inside the door. 

“Tm Dorothy,” she said, looking up at him 
with pale anxiety. 

“Dorothy Churchill?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she answered, nodding, the tears gath- 
ering slowly in her eyes. 

“And you have no brothers or sisters?” he 
said. 

“No,” she whispered. 

He took her hand tenderly in his, and led her 
to a chair, and sat down beside her, keeping hold 
of the little brown hand, which trembled in his 
clasp. She looked like a forlorn, neglected child. 
The big tears rolled one by one down her cheeks; 
but she did not dare to move or wipe them away. 
She seemed as if her spirit was crushed by long 
and constant unkindness. Sidney drew her near 
to him as he would have done a little child. His 
heart was troubled for her, and he wished Mar- 
garet could be with him to comfort this lonely 
and sorrow-stricken girl. 

“You loved your father!” he said, after a 
pause. 


154 


HALF BROTHERS. 


‘‘Not much,” she answered; “he frightened 
me.” 

“ Didn’t he love you? ” he asked. 

“ He loved his dogs most of all,” said Dorothy, 
sobbing. “ Oh, come upstairs, please. You are 
the master now ; and oh, I want you to come to 
his room. The}^ said I must not give any orders 
about anything.” 

She led the way up the broad old staircase, 
where the morning sun was shining in gleams of 
light through chinks in the shutters, and, paus- 
ing for a moment or two before a door till he was 
close beside her, she opened it very cautiously. 
The room was low and dark, wainscoted with 
almost black oak, which reflected no light from 
the candles that were burning in honor of the 
dead. A heavy four-post bedstead held the 
corpse of the dead man, laid out in the terrible 
rigidness of death ; eyes closed, lips locked, head 
and hands motionless for ever. The head and 
face were uncovered, and the weird, indescrib- 
able seal of death was on them. No light would 
ever reach those closed eyes again, no sound 
would ever enter those deafened ears. 

If that had been possible, the uproar that fol- 
lowed Sidney’s entrance into the darkened room 
would have aroused the dead man. For to each 
of the four posts of the great bed was chained a 
huge mastiff, which, as he stepped across the 
threshold, sprang forward as far as the chain 
would allow him, as if to attack the intruder, 
with a wild chorus of furious howling and baying. 


BRAGKENBURN. 


155 


‘‘ Good Heavens ! ” lie exclaimed, starting back 
in horror, “ what is the meaning of this ? ” 

“ He would have it so,” answered Dorothy, as 
she clung with both hands to his arm ; “he would 
have them here all the time he was ill, because he 
said no one else loved him. And John and Betsy 
said they must stay here till you came, because 
you are the master now. But, oh ! they were 
howling and wailing all night, and the night 
before, and it is dreadful. Oh ! be quiet, Juno 
and Di ; he cannot hear you now. Yes, you 
loved him, I know. But he is gone, and can 
never come back to you. Poor dogs ! lie down, 
lie down. I will be kind to you, and take care 
of you ; but you must not stay here, now the 
master is come. Poor dogs, poor dogs ! ” 

Her voice fell into tones of pity, and she loosed 
Sidney’s arm, and ventured up to the mastiff 
nearest to her, laying her hand gently on its 
great rough head and speaking caressing words, 
until all four crouched down moaning, as if they 
understood her. After the furious barking it 
seemed as if a sorrowful silence had fallen into 
the death -chamber, though the dogs still whined 
and whimpered, but quietly, as if they were 
growing exhausted with their grief. 

“He loved them very much,” said Dorothy, 
looking across to Sidney as he stood at some dis- 
tance, afraid of provoking the mastiffs to a fresh 
outbreak if he attempted to draw nearer. “ Oh, 
yes ! he loved them ever so much more than he 
did me. He always said I should live to be a 


156 


HALF BROTHERS. 


sorrow and a curse to him ; and it was no use 
wasting his love upon a girl. I am almost grown 
up now ; but I’ve never been a sorrow and a curse 
to him. And I never would have been, father,” 
she added, turning and speaking to the corpse, 
as if it could hear her ; “ perhaps you know now 
that I would always have been a good girl to 
you.” 

“Come away, my poor child,” said Sidney, 
with a feeling of deep pity and tenderness for the 
desolate girl, “ you belong to me now. Come 
away, and these poor dogs shall be taken out of 
this room. I cannot come to you, lest they 
should begin their fierce uproar again.” 

She was shivering with excitement when she 
reached his side ; and he put his arm round her, 
and almost carried her away from the gloomy 
room and terrible assemblage of mourners. The 
light was stronger outside the door, and he could 
see her small, pale face quivering, and her dark 
eyes gleaming with terror and grief. He stooped 
down and kissed the pale face. 

“Now, Dorothy,” he said, “listen to me. I 
have no daughter, and from this moment I take 
you as mine ; and my wife will be as a mother to 
you. It is a new life you are about to begin ; 
quite different from this old one. Which is your 
room, my child % Go, and rest now till afternoon. 
And remember that I am master here, and I will 
take every care of you.” 

Though owner of the old house he hardly knew 
it. It was twenty years since he had let it to Mr. 
Churchill, and he had not seen it since. He 


BRACKENBURK 


157 


filled up his time, while waiting for the solicitor 
from York, in wandering through the rambling 
old rooms. Most of them were low and dimly 
lighted, with heavy mullioned windows and 
wainscoted walls ; but there was a charm about 
them which no modern mansion can possess. 
All of them were poorly and barely furnished 
with the mere necessaries of household life. 
There were no curtains to the windows, and no 
carpets on the floors, which looked as if they 
had been seldom cleaned. His footsteps echoed 
loudly through the nearly empty rooms ; and he 
found nowhere any trace of wealth or reflnement, 
except in the library, which was well furnished 
with books. There were only two servants — an 
elderly man and his wife. The large garden sur- 
rounding the house had become a wilderness, 
where the old gravel walks were scarcely to be 
traced. 

“ The little girl will be poor,” Sidney said to 
himself, ‘‘but Margaret will care the more for her 
if she has nothing.” 

As the morning passed on the solicitor arrived, 
eager to get through his business and catch a 
return train, which would take him back that 
evening. He ran rapidly through the will, which 
left everything in Sidney’s hands. 

“You see you have absolute power,” he said ; 
“ it is the simplest will in the world. His only 
daughter sole heiress, and you sole executor. 
No relations, no legacies, no conditions.” 

“He must have been an odd man,” remarked 
Sidney. 


158 


HALF BROTHERS. 


‘‘Very odd indeed,” lie replied, “very odd! 
Has not spent £200 a year over and above bis 
rent since lie came to this place. No, I’ in wrong ! 
since liis wife left him, when their child was 
about two years of age. Han away, you under- 
stand, and providentially died a few months after- 
ward. The girl has grown up quite untaught 
and uncared for. She will be eighteen soon, and 
looks and acts like a child of twelve. A serious 
thing that, with her fortune.” 

“Fortune!” repeated Sidney. “I judged 
them to be poor.” 

“ About a quarter of a million, more or less,” 
said the solicitor; “and she has never been 
trusted to spend a sixpence in her life. Poor 
Churchill professed to hate her, as being like her 
mother ; but you see he could not disinherit her. 
Curious instinct that in human nature to leave 
one’s possessions to one’s own flesh and blood. 
We seldom find it contravened.” 

“But there is no trace of wealth about the 
house,” suggested Sidney. 

“ Churchill sold off all his wife’s knickknacks 
when she ran away,” he replied, “and kept 
nothing but necessaries. He has lived here with 
two servants and a host of dogs. By the way, 
the dogs are to attend the funeral as far as the 
churchyard gates ; the rector will not allow them 
inside. We fixed the funeral for to-morrow, and 
I will run over to it ; and then we can arrange 
any further matters of business,” 


CHAPTER XXL 
Sidney’s ward. 

Sidney passed the rest of the day in seeing a 
few of his tenants renting the farms in the im- 
mediate neighborliood of Brackenburn Manor, 
and hearing from them gossiping reports of the 
oddities of the late occupier of the Manor House. 
By all accounts, the life led by his young ward 
had been dreary and lonely indeed. She had not 
been suffered to hold any intercourse with her 
neighbors, even to the extent of attending the 
little parish church, which stood in a village 
about a mile and a half away. The prevalent 
idea about her was that she was not quite in her 
right mind ; that she was at the least an “ inno- 
cent,” as they called her, and for this reason 
her father had never sent her to school or en- 
gaged a teacher for her. That she had spent the 
greater part of her time in wandering alone about 
the moor was told to him again and again as a 
proof that she differed from ordinary girls. Sid- 
ney went back to the Manor, after strolling about 
some hours, and found Dorothy sitting in the 
wide old porch, evidently awaiting his return. 
The evening sun shone full into the porch, and 
fell upon a white, wistful little face, which was 

159 


160 


HALF BROTHERS. 


lifted up shyly to liim as he drew near, with a 
faint flush of color coming to the pale cheeks. 
It was a sad face, yet the face of a child. He 
took her hand gently into his own as he sat down 
on the bench beside her. 

“ So you have been sleeping well,” he said in 
his pleasant voice. 

“ Yes ; they’ve taken the dogs away from his 
bed,” she answered gratefully, ‘‘and the house 
was very quiet. His room is the quietest of all. 
When he was ill he let me read to him some- 
times ; the dogs could not do that, and he seemed 
to like it. So this afternoon I’ve read to him all 
the burial service.” 

“Aloud ! ” asked Sidney. 

“Yes, aloud,” she answered: “it was not 
wrong, was it ? ” 

“No, no,” he replied, looking down pitifully 
into her anxious, wistful eyes. She was a very 
slight, small creature, he thought, easily hurt, 
and very easily neglected, for she would not 
assert her own claims. There was a great attrac- 
tion to him in the simplicity and quaintness of 
her ways. 

“I know,” she said, fastening her dark eyes 
earnestly upon him and speaking with a quiver- 
ing mouth, “ I know that his body is dead, and 
he could not hear me with those ears, but I felt 
as if his spirit was near me ; and when I flnished 
I almost heard his voice saying : ‘ After all, I did 
love you a little, Dorothy.’ I wish I could be 
sure he thought it.” 


SIDNETS WARD. 


161 


“I feel sure he loved you,” said Sidney, 
“though he would not show it.” 

“ I am glad you say that,” she answered in a 
trembling voice. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes ; the 
pleasant country sounds only falling peacefully 
on their ears. Then the girl spoke again in slow 
and measured tones. 

“I do so wish you would take me away with 
you,” she said. “I would do everything you 
like, and work at any kind of work ; and I should 
want nothing but food and clothes. My clothes 
do not cost much,” she added, looking down on 
the coarse merino dress she was wearing. ‘ ‘ Betsy 
buys my frocks for me, and she says they cost 
less than her own. If you could afford to let me 
live with you I would try not to be an expense to 
you.” 

“Then you would like to live with me?” 
asked Sidney with a smile. 

“ You are more like a father to me than he 
was,” she replied wistfully. “Oh, yes ! I should 
love to live with you. I love you.” 

“ That is well,” he said, “ because your father 
has left you to my care — you and your money.” 

“ Have I any money ? ” she inquired. 

“A great deal,” he replied ; “you will be very 
rich.” 

“Oh!” she cried with a sigh, “I always 
thought we were poor. And Jesus Christ says, 

‘ How hardly shall they that have riches enter 
into the kingdom of God.’ ” 


162 


HALF BROTHERS. 


The tone, and the look, and the words were so 
like Margaret’s that they startled him. This 
young girl might have been Margaret’s daughter. 

‘‘But, perhaps, you want money,” she went 
on, after a pause ; “perhaps you can use it. I 
only want a little ; and I could not use much. 
Take it ; I do not care for it. It shall all be 
yours. It is not impossible to enter the kingdom 
of God, even if you are rich.” 

“I trust not,” he answered gravely, “for I, 
too, am a rich man, and my wife is a rich woman, 
yet she is truly in the kingdom of heaven already. 
My wife will teach you how to use your riches 
well.” 

“I thought we were very poor,” pursued 
Dorothy. “ My father gave me a shilling once, 
the day he let Betsy take me to York with her, 
to see the Minster. If I am to be a rich woman, 
I ought to have learned how to spend money. 
Will it take me long to learn it ? ” 

“ Very likely not,” he replied, smiling at her 
anxious glance; “it is easy enough to spend 
money.” 

“If you leave me here,” she went on, “I should 
like to keep the dogs with me, for his sake, you 
know. They would miss me so, and I should 
miss them ; and this i^lace is too lonely to live in 
without plenty of fierce dogs. John and Betsy 
want to get rid of them,” she said, cautiously 
lowering her voice.; “but please let me keep 
them if I stay here.” 

“But you cannot stay here,” he answered. 


SlDJS^ErS WAEB. 


163 


“The day after to-morrow I must take you away, 
and you will live in my house, under my wife’s 
care, until you are of age. You have a great 
deal to learn, my child.” 

“ I do not know anything ! ” she cried clasping 
her hands. “ Do you think she will like me? I 
never spoke to a lady in my life ; and I am so 
ignorant. I can only read, and write, and sew. 
Only I can work in a garden and make flowers 
grow, and take care of dogs, and walk miles and 
miles on the moors. I know all the birds, and 
all the wild creatures that live there, and they 
will come to me when I am all alone and I stand 
quite still and call to them. After the funeral 
to-morrow I must go and bid them good-by. Be- 
cause, if I ever come back here, I shall be different. 
Oh ! how different I shall be ; and perhaps they 
will not know me again.” 

She turned her head away, looking out pen- 
sively across the moors, where the sun was set- 
ting behind the low curves of the horizon. There 
was a quaint grace about this girlish outpouring 
of her full heart which touched Sidney deeply, 
accustomed as he was to nothing less conventional 
than Phyllis, with her pretty manners and highly 
cultivated accomplishments. He felt sure the 
girl had never spoken so freely to anyone before. 
What would Margaret think of her? But he 
smiled as he thought how warmly Margaret 
would welcome this desolate young girl who had 
so quickly won her way to his heart. She was in 
no degree imbecile, he told himself as he looked 


164 


HALF BROTHEBS. 


at the low, broad forehead and the thoughtful 
eyes, and the firm yet sweet mouth of the girl 
who sat so motionless at his side watching the 
western sky. This was a fresh, simple, un- 
fettered nature which had grown up alone, with 
its own thoughts and feelings, and Margaret was 
the very person to mold it into true womanly 
strength and sweetness. 

They went into the house as soon as the sun 
was set and the chill air of the moors swept 
across the neglected garden. A supper of oat- 
cakes, brown bread and cheese, with a large jug 
of buttermilk, had been laid on a bare table in 
the large hall ; and Dorothy invited him hospi- 
tably to partake of it. It was the meal of a 
workingman. AJ fire of peat and wood was 
smoldering on the hearth, which, when she 
stirred it, gave a fitful blaze, and this, with one 
candle, was all the light they had during the 
evening. But Dorothy made no comment on the 
frugal meal or the dim light ; it was evidently 
all she was used to, and she did not think her 
guest would find it strange. 

The next morning Sidney and the lawyer alone 
followed the dead man to the grave. Dorothy 
said nothing about going, and Sidney thought it 
best that she should be spared the excitement. 
As they drove somewhat slowly among the lanes, 
followed by John and the four mastiffs, the 
solicitor gave to Sidney all the necessary infor- 
mation concerning the property of the deceased, 
and took his instructions as to the management 


8IDNET8 WARD. 


165 


of Dorothy’s inheritance. He did not return to 
the Manor after the funeral, bidding Sidney 
good-by at the churchyard gate. So, with no 
mourners, they laid Dorothy’s father in the 
grave. 

Sidney took care to dine at Jthe village inn, 
where the fare was better than at the Manor, and 
it was late in the afternoon before he returned. 
Dorothy had gone out on the moors, and the 
dogs were yelping and baying in the stable-yard, 
making their cries resound far and near, as if 
they resented being left behind. John pointed 
out the path Dorothy had taken, and he followed 
it till it became a scarcely perceptible track 
among the heather. It was an intense enjoy- 
ment to him to be up here in the bracing air, 
with miles upon miles of uplands stretching on 
every hand as far as he could see, with little 
lonely tarns lying in the hollows, and gray rocks, 
half covered with moss, scattered among the 
purple heather. He regretted that he had ever 
let Brackenburn Manor, and had not kept it as 
a summer resort for Margaret and the boys. How 
they would have enjoyed its wildness and soli- 
tude ! but now their boyhood was over. Still he 
would bring Margaret here next summer, and 
they would have long rambles together, such as 
they had never had before. 

He caught sight of Dorothy at last, her slight 
girlish figure standing out clearly against the 
sky, as she stood on a ridge of rising ground. 
As his footsteps drew nearer to her, the dried 


166 


iial:f brothers. 


heather crackling under his tread, there was a 
flutter of birds all around her, flying away hither 
and thither, and he fancied he heard the scutter- 
ing of little wild creatures through the ling and 
brushwood. He saw her face was bathed in tears 
as he came up to her.] 

have bid them all good-by,” she said, ‘‘and 
I think they understand. And I’m saying good- 
by to the moors all the time in my heart. It can 
never be the same again ; for they die soon — the 
poor little birds and the wild things — and their 
young ones will not know me if I go away ; and 
they’ll be afraid of me and fancy I mean to hurt 
them or catch them. I’m very glad to go and 
live with you anywhere, but I love the moors and 
the sky, and the living creatures ; and I cannot 
go away from them without crying.” 

“Blit we shall come again,” he said; “the 
Manor is mine ; and we are coming next winter 
to flx on a site for building a new house for my 
son Philip. You shall help to choose it, Dorothy. 
Who could choose it better? ” 

As he spoke the thought flashed across his 
brain, why should not Philip marry this charm- 
ing girl with her large fortune ? After three 
years’ companionship with Margaret she would 
be all he could wish in his future daughter-in- 
law. She had won his heart already, and she 
would make his and Margaret’s old age as happy 
as tlieir middle life had been. N'othing could be 
better than that Dorothy should marry Philip 


SIDNEY'S WARD. 


167 


and live here, in the birthplace she loved so 
much, for the best part of every year. 

“ Who is Philip ? ” asked Dorothy. 

“One of my boys,” he answered. “I have 
two of them, Philip and Hugh.” 

“I never spoke to any boys,” she said in a 
troubled tone. 

“It is time you did,” he replied, laughing 
heartily. “ What sort of a world have you lived 
in ? Philip is heir to this estate and will live for 
a time in the Manor. Here are my boys’ photo- 
graphs for you to see, and my wife’s, too.” 

He put into her hands a morocco case contain- 
ing the three portraits, and Dorothy scrutinized 
them with intent eagerness. But she had never 
seen photographs, and their want of color dis- 
appointed her. She gave them back to Sidney 
with a faint smile. 

“I shall not like any of them as much as 
you,” she said. 


CHAPTEE XXIL 
Dorothy’s hew home. 

But even witli Sidney as her companion and 
protector the long journey south was a great trial 
to Dorothy, who had only once before left her 
native place. She was very pale and nervous ; 
he could see her little hands trembling when they 
did not lie clasped tightly together on her lap. 
The tears gathered under her drooping eyelids, 
and now and then rolled slowly down her cheeks. 
The change in her life had been too sudden and 
too great. Only a week ago she had been still a 
forlorn and neglected child, of whom no one 
took any thought. She had believed herself to 
be the daughter of a very poor man, who could 
afford her no advantages of education and train- 
ing. Xow she was told that she was heiress to a 
great fortune ; and already the luxuries of wealth 
were beginning to surround her. She was travel- 
ing by an express train in a first-class carriage ; 
and Sidney had bought a heap of newspapers and 
books to beguile the hours of her journey. She 
did not open one of them ; her brain was too 
busy for her to read. Her heart, too, was beat- 
ing with fear that had something akin to pleas- 
ure in it. 


168 


D0R0TIIT8 NEW HOME. 


169 


Wliat would Mrs. Martin be like ? She had 
never seen any man like Sidney ; but she loved 
him, and felt grateful to him. She watched him 
shyly from under her long eyelashes, and thought 
how handsome and distinguished he looked ; 
very different from her father, whose hair had 
been white and his face gray and morose as long 
as she could remember him. She admired her 
guardian with an intense admiration that would 
have amused him greatly had he known of it. 
But she was afraid of Mrs. Martin, and still more 
afraid of the boys of whom Sidney had spoken. 

The well ke^Dt park, with its tine avenue of 
elm trees, lying round Apley Hall, was very dif- 
ferent from the neglected wilderness of a garden 
surrounding the old Manor House ; and the long 
front of the Hall itself, with its stone walls and 
mullioned windows, and the broad terrace of 
velvet-like lawn stretching before it, was very 
imposing to her eyes, and filled her with a strong 
feeling of dismay. She was not fit to live in such 
a j)lace as this, and with such people as inhabited 
it. A crimson flush rose painfully to her pale 
face ; the tears gathered again in her eyes as 
Sidney almost lifted her out of the carriage, for 
her dimmed eyes caught a vision of a beautiful 
woman coming down the steps to meet them, 
with an eager and graceful movement, as if she 
was hastening to welcome her. Dorothy, like a 
child, flung her arms round Margaret’s neck, and 
hid her face on her shoulder, as she burst into a 
passion of tears. 


170 


HALF BROTHERS. 


“My poor girl ! my j)oor little girl ! ” reiter- 
ated Margaret, pressing Dorothy closer to her, 
“you will be at home here very soon. We are 
going to make you fond of us, Dorothy.” 

“Oh!” she said, “I did not mean to be so 
foolish.” 

Margaret herself led her to her room, the one 
which Phyllis had always occupied when she 
stayed all night at the Hall. It was near to 
Margaret’s own room; and she wished to have 
Dorothy near to her. Dorothy had never seen 
such a room before. There was a small white 
bed in one corner, hidden by an Indian screen ; 
but in all other respects it was fitted up as a 
young lady’s sitting room. The window sills 
were low and broad, and cushioned as seats ; and 
as soon as Margaret left her she sat down on one 
of them, and gazed half frightened about her. 
There were books, and pictures, and flowers 
everywhere. A small cottage piano stood against 
the wall, and a writing table was placed in a good 
light, as if the occupant of the room was sup- 
posed to spend a good portion of her time in 
writing. How different it all was from the bare, 
uncarpeted, uncurtained chamber, in a lonely 
corner of the old Manor, where she had slept last 
night, and all the nights of all the years she 
could remember! She felt almost too shy to 
walk about this dainty nest and examine its 
numerous decorations. Most of the pictures 
were engravings of famous originals ; and pres- 
ently she realized that they were chiefly sacred 
subjects in which the central figure was that of 


DOROTHY'S NEW HOME. 


171 


our Lord. Three of them were photographs of 
bas-reliefs, representing his triumphal entrance 
into Jerusalem, the way to the Cross, and the 
procession of sad men and women carrying his 
dead body to the sepulcher. The predominant 
impression made upon her by the pleasant room 
was that produced by these representations of 
the life of the Saviour. The place seemed like a 
sacred vestibule to another world. 

The sound of voices on the terrace below 
arrested her attention, and she peeped stealthily 
through one corner of the window. The light of 
the setting sun lay low upon it, casting long 
shadows across the close, smooth turf from some 
figures pacing to and fro under her windows. 
There was Margaret ; and leaning on her arm 
was Phyllis, in some Avonder of a white gown, 
with soft spots of color here and there, which to 
Dorothy’s eyes looked the prettiest and daintiest 
of dresses. She was talking to Margaret play- 
fully and lovingly, but glancing back now and 
then to smile upon Sidney, who was following 
them, and by whose side walked a young man as 
tall, as handsome, and as distinguished looking 
as himself. This, then, was one of his boys ! 
Dorothy caught her breath, in a sob of mingled 
terror and admiration. 

She stole away into a little dressing room, and 
looked long at herself, with grave concern and 
disapprobation, in the mirror, which gave to her, 
for the first time in her life, a full-length reflec- 
tion of her face and figure. Her dress was 
clumsily made, and her dark hair was drawn 


172 


HALF BROTHERS. 


tightly back from her face, and fastened up^into 
a prim knot at the back of her head. She was 
smaller and shorter than the beantifiil girl she 
had just seen. There was neither grace nor 
charm about her, she felt vaguely. Nothing in 
her former life had fitted her for the one she was 
just entering. It would have been better for her 
to have remained at Brackenburn. 

She went back to the sitting room disturbed and 
unhappy ; but a soothing and comforting presence 
seemed to be there. The terrace was deserted 
now ; and only the long shadows of the trees fell 
across its soft sward. The low evening light gave 
a tranquil brightness to her room, which was 
neither hot nor garish ; and in it she seemed to see 
more distinctly the many pictures, which more or 
less clearly told the story of the life of Christ. 

“Oh, I must be good!” she said in a half 
whisper. “ I will try to be good.” 

She heard a low knock at her door, and Mar- 
garet looked in, dressed for dinner. 

“My dear,” she said, “I thought you would 
be too tired to dine with us to-day, so you shall 
have dinner here alone, and Phyllis and I will 
come and take tea with you by and by. Will 
you like that, Dorothy ?” 

“ Oh ! I could not go down to-night,” she an- 
swered eagerly. 

“And my husband says he will come to see 
you,” continued Margaret ; “he looks upon you 
as his special charge. By and by you will be 
quite at home among us.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A WIFE FOR PHILIP. 

Laura had heard with dismay that Sidney was 
bringing a rich young ward to live at Apley. 
But when Phyllis brought a report of Dorothy, 
after taking tea with her and Margaret alone, 
accurately describing her appearance and mim- 
icking her manner, Laura’s mind was set very 
much at ease. A timid and awkward country 
girl was not likely to supplant Phyllis with 
Philip or his parents. Both Sidney and Marga- 
ret took great pleasure in Phyllis’s attractive- 
ness ; and Laura had made them feel that it was 
in a great measure due to her constant intercourse 
with themselves. She only hoped that Dorothy 
would not be too homely and unpolished to rec- 
oncile one of her own boys to marry her for her 
fortune. A girl with a quarter of a million as her 
portion set close to her own doors, almost in her 
own hands, excited Laura’s imagination. How 
admirably she would do for Dick ! But it would 
not do to let Dick know that he must woo her for 
'her quarter of a million. This would be a far 
more difficult affair than Philip and Phyllis had 
been, and would require her most adroit manage- 
ment. George on her side, and Margaret on the 

173 


174 


HALF BROTHERS. 


other side, would not give Dorothy’s fortune a 
thought ; it would not appear any advantage to 
either of them to secure possession of this large 
sum of money. But Laura was shrewd enough 
to know that Sidney would be anxious to retain 
it in his own hands, and no way could be surer 
than making the heiress the wife of one of his 
sons. Hugh would not be too young ; he was the 
same age as Dorothy, and she was as young and 
ignorant as a girl of twelve. 

But it seemed impossible to get hold of Doro- 
thy. She was shy, silent, and diffident, and 
clung, as Laura thought, very foolishly to Mar- 
garet. There was a speedy and startling trans- 
formation in her appearance as soon as Margaret 
could procure suitable dresses for her, and have 
her abundant, soft, dark hair arranged becom- 
ingly. Margaret saw no religion in slovenly or 
peculiar dress ; and she took pleasure in seeing 
everything and every person appear at their best. 
Dorothy hardly recognized herself in a week’s 
time ; and the change in her own appearance 
fitting her for her surroundings made her feel 
more quickly at home ; but she was very shy 
with Phyllis and her mother. Neither of them 
could become intimate with the quiet, retiring 
girl. Dorothy, like most girls, was more afraid 
of Phyllis than of anyone else ; the very grace of 
her manner, conventional rather than natural, 
made her shrink within herself, and feel awk- 
ward and homely. 

But there was no such feeling in Margaret’s 


A WIFE FOB PHILIP. 


175 


benign presence. The neglected girl’s nature 
opened and unfolded under her influence like a 
flower in the sunlight. There was a strong sym- 
pathy between them on religious iDoints. Dor- 
othy had had no training except that of a con- 
stant and simple study of the Bible. Her father 
had allowed her but few books out of his large 
library, but those he had given to her she knew 
almost by heart. She was studying diligently 
now under Margaret’s direction, with the aid of 
teachers who came down from London to give 
her lessons. This education of Dorothy had an 
intense charm for Margaret ; there had been 
nothing like it in Phyllis’s training, which had 
naturally been left in her mother’s hands. It 
was a never flagging delight to watch the girl 
growing day by day more intelligent and more 
beautiful in her presence ; blossoming out into 
smiles, and caresses, and half timid merriment. 
It sent a thrill of pathetic pleasure to Margaret’s 
heart when she heard Dorothy’s flrst laugh. 

“How much you think of Dorothy!” said 
Sidney to her one evening some months later, 
as they sat together on the terrace with Philip 
beside them. 

“I cannot tell you how dear she is to me,” 
answered Margaret. 

“ But not more than Phyllis — not as much as 
Phyllis? ” said Philip jealously. 

“Not more or less,” she replied, “but differ- 
ently. Dorothy is more like my own child. 
Phyllis has her father and mother ; Dorothy has 


176 


HALF BROTHERS. 


no one nearer to lier than me. She has never 
been cared for before, and she returns my care 
with the simplest love.” 

‘‘But Phyllis loves you as much as this child 
can do,” persisted Philip. 

“Not much more a child than Phyllis,” said 
his father ; “she is not two years younger.” 

“But she is only a schoolgirl,” put in Philip, 
“a mere child comx^ared with Phyllis. Still if 
she is in love with you and my mother I can 
overlook all her defects.” 

“ Phyllis is not in love with me,” replied Mar- 
garet, laughing, “ and I admit that makes a dif- 
ference. We are blind to the faults of those who 
are in love with us. ‘ It is not granted to man 
to love and to be wise,’ T suppose. But don’t be 
afraid, my dear boy. I shall not love Phyllis less 
because I love Dorothy. We do not carve our 
hearts into slices, and give piece after i^iece away 
till there is nothing left. Rather every true love 
makes all our other love deeper.” 

“That is true, Margaret,” said Sidney. “I 
have loved God and man more and better since I 
loved you.” 

He spoke earnestly, and in the agitated tone of 
deep feeling. Life was very full to him just 
then ; and he felt day by day that he was greatly 
favored by the God he worshiped. His heart 
expanded with a vivid glow of religious grati- 
tude. What more was there that he could de- 
sire ? His lot was prosperous and happy beyond 
that of any man’s he knew. Sidney was apt to 


A WIFE FOE PHILIP. 


177 


look at himself through other men’s eyes. If he 
looked at himself as a rich man it was through 
the eyes of City men, who spoke to one another 
of him as one of the most successful men in the 
City. As a religious man he looked at himself 
through the eyes of Margaret and the rector, 
who seemed satisfied that he was truly a Chris- 
tian like themselves. It would, then, have been a 
crying ingratitude if he had not loved God, who 
was crowning him with blessings, and man, 
whose general lot was less prosperous than his 
own. There was only one more success to de- 
sire and to achieve, and that Margaret was un- 
consciously doing her utmost to attain for him. 
He must secure Dorothy and her large fortune 
for Philip. 

“Philip,” he said, “I see Dorothy yonder 
under the cedars. Go and tell her I am come 
home, and have brought something for her.” 

Sidney watched her and Philip with pleased 
eyes as they returned side by side along the 
terrace. She was still a slight, childish-looking 
girl ; but there was no affectation of childish 
graces in her. She looked up into Philip’s face 
with a shy, half smiling admiration, which had 
a peculiar attractiveness in it. Philip was con- 
scious of this for the first time, and saw a new 
beauty, or rather a promise of beauty, in the 
dark eyes and the quaint, smiling face lifted up 
to him. Her eyes had a depth in them he had 
not observed before ; and even the nervous inter- 
lacing of her fingers, as she ventured to talk to 


178 


HALF BROTHERS. 


him, did not seem so awkward a trick as it did 
when he first saw her. Phyllis had never been 
shy with him ; and the shyness of a pretty girl 
has a wonderful charm. Not that he could com- 
pare her with Phyllis for a moment. He was 
carrying the book she had been reading under 
the cedars, and looking into it he saw that it was 
the “ Pensees de Pascal ” done into English. 

“Do you like this book?” he asked in some 
surprise. 

“Very much,” she answered. 

“But do you understand it?” he asked 
again. 

“Not all,” she said ; “you see, I cannot read 
it in French. But when I don’t understand I 
ask Mrs. Martin. She lets me read with her two 
hours every day,” she added, with a light in her 
eyes, and a tone of gladness in her low voice. 

He wished it had been Phyllis who had read 
with his mother two hours a day. But Phyllis 
was too much of a butterfly to apply herself to any- 
thing for two hours at a time ; and solid reading 
like this would be impossible to her. He was 
afraid that his father and mother both preferred 
Dorothy to his destined wife ; and a disquieting 
shadow crossed his hitherto cloudless future as 
he saw the pleasure with which Sidney watched 
their approach. 

Philip felt that there was a sort of disloyalty in 
thus thinking of Phyllis in comparison with any 
other girl ; and as soon as he had found a chair 


A WIFE FOE PHILIP. 


179 


for Dorotliy, lie strolled away, hastening his 
steps when he was out of sight of the terrace as 
he crossed the park to the Eectory grounds. 
There had been a clerical meeting at the Rectory, 
which had kept Phyllis at home with her mother. 
But now he caught sight of her standing on the 
other side of a sunk fence, which separated the 
garden from the park ; and it seemed to Philip 
as if she felt she Avas being [supplanted in the 
house which had always been a second home to 
her. He leaped lightly across the barrier and 
hastened to her side. As she looked up to him 
tears were glittering in her eyes. 

“What is it, Phyllis ? ” he asked tenderly. 

“ You have not been to see me all day,” she 
said in her most plaintive tones, “ and it makes 
me sad. How could 1 ever bear to lose you, 
Philip ! You and I have been more to one an- 
other than any of the others ; haven’ t we ? I 
was thinking just then how we used to play to- 
gether when we were quite little creatures. Do 
you remember? ” 

“ I never forget it, Phyllis,” he answered ; 
“you have belonged to me as long as I can 
recollect. How can you imagine you could ever 
lose me?” 

“lam afraid of it sometimes,” she whispered, 
with a sob that pierced him to the heart. 

“My darling!” he cried, “that could never 
be ! never ! You used to be my little wife when 
we were children, and you will be my real wife 


180 


HALF BROTHERS. 


as soon as I am old enough to many. I suppose 
we are very young yet, my Phyllis ; too young. 
We must wait at least till I come of age ” 

“But Pm afraid of Dorothy,” she said, with 
another sob. ‘‘My mother says your father is 
making up his mind you shall marry her, and 
your mother is just wraxiped uj) in her. She 
cares very little for me now, and Dorothy is all 
the world to her.” 

“No, no ! ” he exclaimed, “ my mother is not 
changeable ; she loves you as much as ever. Of 
course Dorothy takes up a good deal of her time, 
for the poor child has been taught nothing. 
You cannot be jealous of her, Phyllis. Only 
think of all you are, and all you know, and 
comx:)are yourself with a little untrained, awk- 
ward girl like Dorothy. Why, there is not 
a maid in our house who has not been taught 
more.” 

“ But how fond your father is of her ! ” said 
Phyllis. 

“ And how fond she is of him ! ” replied Philip, 
laughing; “she has neither eyes nor ears for 
anyone else when he is by, except my mother. 
And she drinks in all he says upon every topic 
as if she understood it. I suppose she does in 
some measure, for she has some brains in that 
little head of hers. But no man could resist such 
sweet flattery ; and I believe he loves her next to 
my mother.” 

“More than you boys ? ” suggested Phyllis. 

“Neither more nor less,” said Philip, quoting 


A WIFE FOR PHILIP. 


181 


liis mother’s words, “but differently. Of course 
his love for a girl like Dorothy must differ from 
his love for young men like Hugh and me.” 

“ But more than me ? ” she persisted. 

“Perhaps,” he admitted reluctantly, “per- 
haps. But what then? I have only to say I 
love you, and it will be all right. Ho, no. He 
would make no objection ; he could not, when I 
say I have always regarded you as my future 
wife. Besides, it will be years before Dorothy 
will think of falling in love. She will grow up 
for Hugh, perhaps.” 

“She is not so much younger than me,” said 
Phyllis in a petulant voice. 

“ Years younger ; a child, a baby ! ” he went 
on ; not to be compared with you for a moment. 
But why do we talk of her ? You cannot think 
that Dorothy could ever take your place with 
me, Phyllis ? I cannot remember a time when 
you were not dearer to me than anyone else — 
except my mother.” 

“I cannot bear any exceptions,” she said, 
pouting. 

But Philip kept silence. Yes ; Phyllis was all 
he could wish for, and would be a charming wife, 
with her little capricious ways, and in spite of 
slight uncertainties of temper. She always 
stirred within him a sense of life, sometimes of 
ruffled life, perhaps ; but there was no stagnation 
of feeling in her companionship. But would she 
ever possess, and, by possessing, diffuse, the sense 
of great peace which his mother’s presence gave 


182 


HALF BROTHERS. 


to Mm ? He knew there were times when if he 
could not go to her, and open his heart fully to her 
wise and tender scrutiny, his life would be crip- 
pled and incomplete, and he would be as a man 
who had lost his eyesight, or the use of Ms right 
hand. But it was not so with Phyllis. She 
could walk merrily beside him along smooth and 
sunny roads ; but when the thorny path came, 
what would she do ? 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

THE rector’s trouble. 

It was quite true that Sidney loved Dorothy 
next to Margaret. From the first she had been 
more at ease with him than with anyone else. 
He had liked to have Phyllis about the house, 
with her pretty girlish ways, and ready to sparkle 
with delight if he brought some dress or trinket 
for her from town. But Phyllis had a father of 
her own ; and her daughter-like smiles and kisses 
belonged of right to George, not to himself. 
There was no other man to whom Dorothy owed 
any demonstration of girlish tenderness and 
devotion, or who could have felt he was yielding 
an indulgence, when she watched for his return 
home, and ran to meet him, greeting him with 
the frank and innocent delight of a little 
daughter. Often she was waiting for him at the 
lodge, with tw\) or three of her great mastiffs 
about her ; and he would leave the carriage to 
walk up the avenue, listening to her bright and 
quaint chatter. For she was talkative to him, 
however silent she might be to Philip. She was 
growing prettier every day ; Sidney found her as 
pretty as Phyllis herself, and far more natural. 
He declared to himself that she was as like Mar- 


ies 


184 


HALF BROTSERS, 


garet when she was a girl as if she had been 
Margaret’s own child. Only one drop was lack- 
ing to make his cup of haiipiness full, and that 
was to see Dorothy the wife of his eldest son. 
This keen desire made him more clear-sighted 
with regard to Phyllis. He could not imagine 
how he could have been so blind hitherto to the 
danger of letting so close an intimacy exist be- 
tween her and Philip. When Phyllis was not at 
the Hall, Philip was sure to be at the Hectory. 
Dorothy’s shyness with him made Phyllis more 
his companion. As Sidney began to notice them 
more closely, he detected an air of appropriation 
in Phyllis’s manner toward Philip which dis- 
turbed him greatly. How long had this been 
going on? It was useless to call. Margaret’s 
attention to the matter, as she would look upon 
it from quite a different point of view from his 
own. But his son and heir must make a better 
match than with a j)oor clergyman’s daughter. 
He must put a stop at once to any such love 
affair, if it existed. 

There was no difficulty in taking a first step in 
pursuit of this object. The rector Avas accus- 
tomed to dine regularly at the Hall on a Monday 
night, Avhich he looked upon as his leisure time. 
George greatly enjoyed these occasions, especially 
when Sidney and he Avere alone. They had been 
brought up by their uncle almost as brothers, 
and the old boyish love still lived in his heart. 
He had never seen any reason to dethrone Sidney 
from the first place he held in his esteem. George 


THE RECTORS TROUBLE. . 185 

was one of tlie few fortunate mortals who had 
possessed an ideal all his life, and at fifty could 
still place faith in it. Sidney and his career 
had been a ceaseless pleasure and pride to him. 

“ George,” said Sidney one Monday evening, 
as they lingered alone together in the comfortable 
dining room, ‘‘ my boy Philip will be of age now 
in a few weeks.” 

‘‘My boy Dick was of age a few weeks ago,” 
replied George, with a smile. 

“Ah, yes ! ” went on Sidney, “and a very fine 
fellow he is. He will distinguish himself in the 
world more than Philip will do. Your boys have 
genius, and will make their mark. It would 
be hardly fair if Philip had every advantage.” 

“Philip has riches,” rejoined the rector, “but 
Margaret and I agree that money is not one of 
God’s great gifts.” 

“ But he has other gifts besides money,” said 
Sidney. 

“Many, many!” replied George warmly; 
“ he has a noble, unselfish nature like Margaret’s, 
and a steadfast, faithful heart. He is less 
worldly than my boys. I do not think he could 
make for himself a brilliant place in this world, 
any more than I could. But he would stand 
high in the kingdom of heaven, as his mother’s 
son should do.” 

Sidney made no immediate ^answer. George 
had spoken the truth, but it was an unpalatable 
truth. Philip was all he could desire in a son, 
except that he had no ambition, and was abso- 


186 


HALF BROTHERS. 


lutely contented with his position and prospects 
in the world. 

I hope,” he said after a i)anse, ‘‘that Philip 
will make my little Dorothy my real daughter. 
He is young yet ; too young to know his own 
mind. But under Margaret’s training Dorothy 
is growing all I should wish in Philip’s wife. 
And when I think of how hajipy my life has 
been made by Margaret I cannot help coveting 
the same happiness for my boy. You spoke of 
God’s gifts, George. If God will give Philip a 
wife like Margaret it would be his best gift.” 

George leaned back in his chair, staring intently 
into the fire, with an expression of perplexity 
and trouble on his usually placid face. How it 
was he did not know, and now he was trying to 
find out ; but there was a vague imj)ression on 
his mind that long, long ago it had been an 
understood thing that Philip was to marry Phyl- 
lis. True, he could not recall any conversation 
on the subject; the children were too young. 
But it seemed to him that he had always been 
led to expect it. But who had so led him ? 
Certainly not Sidney, for he clearly knew nothing 
of it, and had no idea of such a thing. Was it 
possible he had been mistaken ? Could he have 
been merely dreaming a x)leasant dream that 
his dear child’s future welfare was secure? For 
nothing could have given him greater happiness 
than intrusting her to the care of a man he knew 
so well as Philip, who was in fact like one of his 
own sons. Phyllis had her faults, but they 


THE RECTORS TROUBLE. 


187 


were trifles, said the indulgent father to himself ; 
and she cared more for worldly advantages and 
worldly show than she ought ; but Philip’s un- 
worldliness would check all that. He found this 
hope so firmly rooted in his heart that he could 
not believe it was only a dream of his own. 

‘‘Yes, Philip must marry Dorothy,” pursued 
Sidney, in a tone of friendly confidence, “ but it 
will be soon enough in four or five years’ time. 
Then she will be all he can wish for. If I am not 
mistaken, Dorothy is not indifferent to him. I 
can see no brighter future for them both than to 
be man and wife. They are very equally matched 
in money.” 

“But if Philip loved someone else?” began 
the rector gently. 

“ He does not, he cannot,” interrupted Sidney ; 
“ surely his mother and I would be the first to 
know it. He has no intimacy with any girl 
except Phyllis ; and that is the intimacy of 
brother and sister. They love each other as 
brother and sister ; nothing more.” 

“ Phyllis thinks more of Philip than she does of 
her brothers,” said the rector, with a sigh. If 
it was painful to him to be suddenly awakened 
from a dream, there was possibly the same pain 
in store for his little daughter also. 

“Oh, it is nothing but a girl’s fancy,” an- 
swered Sidney lightly, “even if it is so. She 
has seen no other young men ; and we must get 
her out .more, away from this too quiet spot. 
Laura can easily manage that. She and Philip 


188 


HALF BROTHERS. 


are quite too young to have set their hearts upon 
one another ; so do not trouble yourself. And 
George, old friend, though I love your girl for 
her own sake as well as for yours, I could never 
receive her as Philip’s wife.” 

“ I don’t say that Phyllis loves your son,” said 
the rector, “ or that he loves her. It is enough 
for me to know that it would displease you to set 
me on my guard lest such a misfortune should 
occur. I will set Laura on her guard too.” 

“No, no! much better not,” replied Sidney, 
with one of the genial smiles which had never 
failed to win George’s cordial assent to what he 
said ; “we are two old simpletons to be so near 
quarreling about nothing. I simply confide to 
you my hopes for Philip as I always talk to you 
of my plans. They are all children yet ; and will 
make up their minds and change them a dozen 
times in the next few years. Let us keep our 
gossip to ourselves. I do not tell Margaret. 
Why should you tease Laura \ ” 

But the rector went home that night with an 
anxious and a troubled spirit. The more he con- 
sidered it the more certain he felt that Philip and 
Phyllis believed that they were destined for one 
another. Laura always spoke, vaguely indeed, 
but with reiterated persistence, of the two to- 
gether, as if there was no question of them ever 
being separated. The boys, too, seemed to think 
of nothing else ; and Phyllis was always left to 
Philip as his special companion, when he came 
daily to the Rectory. There were small jests and 


THE RECTORS TROUBLE, 


189 


hints, nods and shrugs, all meaning the same 
things, among the boys, when Philip made his 
appearance. He had himself never doubted their 
love for one another. But how this state of 
affairs had come about he did not know ; it had 
grown up so slowly and surely. It was an inex- 
pressible shock to him to discover that Sidney 
and Margaret knew nothing of it. Was it not 
dishonorable toward these, his dearest and oldest 
friends, to have thus allowed so close an intimacy 
to exist between his daughter and their son ? 
Had he taken advantage of their noble, generous 
friendship, which had embraced his children 
almost as if they were their own ? How deeply 
he was in their debt for all that made life tran- 
quil and free from cares ! And he was going to 
repay them by basely entrapping their eldest son 
and Sidney’s heir into a marriage with his por- 
tionless daughter ! 

The rector was very miserable, and there was 
no one to whom he could confide his misery. 
Instinctively he shrank from confessing it to 
his wife ; and of course he could not tell Margaret. 
It was a high delight to him to speak with Mar- 
garet of those spiritual experiences, which she 
seemed to comprehend almost without words, but 
which Laura altogether failed to understand. Of 
this painful and perplexing anxiety he could not 
speak. Once or twice he tried to approach the 
subject, hoping that Margaret might utter some 
word indicating that she, too, was aware of the 
attachment between Philip and Phyllis. But 


190 


HALF BROTHERS. 


Margaret gave no sign that she had ever dreamed 
of such a thing. Though the idea of it seemed 
natural and familiar at the Kectory, it was quite 
unthought of at the Hall. 

But one plain duty lay before him — to^ separ- 
ate his little Phyllis from Philip as much as pos- 
sible. He faintly hoped tliat he was .mistaken, 
and that she had not already given her heart to 
him. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

COMING OF AGE. 

There was great consternation in the tranquil 
Rectory, when the ‘rector declared with unwonted 
decision that neither he, nor his wife, nor Phyllis 
would go north to the coming of age festivities 
of Philip. These revels had been talked of for 
years ; and since Dorothy had come from Brack- 
enburn she had been called upon to describe 
again and again the old Manor House and its 
surroundings. Philip and Pliyllis looked for- 
ward to choosing the site of the new mansion 
together. 

“You boys may go,” said the rector; “you 
have been brought up as brothers with Philip, 
and if he wishes it, it is only due to him and his 
father that you should attend them. Butjno one 
else goes.” 

“ What ! ” cried Dick in blunt astonishment ; 
“ not the future Mrs. Martin ? ” 

“What do you [mean?” asked the rector 
sternly. 

“ Why, Phyllis, of course ! ” he answered ; 
and Phyllis laughed merrily, and blushed a 
little, but did not show any resentment. 

“I will have no such jests made here,” said the 

191 


192 


HALF BROTHERS. 


rector with increased sternness. ‘‘Philip and 
Phyllis are not children any longer.” 

“ Children ? no ! ” cried Dick ; “ and it is no 
jest either, father. They’ve always been prom- 
ised to one another. Of course they are en- 
gaged.” 

“Secretly?” said the rector, unable to utter 
another word. 

“Oh, it’s an open secret,” pursued Dick. 
“ You ask Philip. Ask uncle or aunt Martin. 
Ask Dorothy. Ask Andrew Goldsmith. Every- 
body would say they knew it, except you, dear 
old father.” 

“No, your uncle and aunt do not know,” he 
replied in a tone of deep depression and sadness. 
It seemed an unpardonable treachery that these 
two should have entered into an engagement 
without asking the consent of their parents. 
This base blow had been struck at Sidney in his 
home, and by those that were dear to him. “ A 
man’s foes shall be they of his own household,” 
he said bitterly to himself, as he sat alone in his 
study, after leaving all the members of his family 
in a state of dismay and amazement. Philip 
came to him by and by, having been summoned 
by Phyllis, and declared that he had never 
thought of keeping his love a secret ; that he was 
only waiting till he was of age to speak openly of 
it to his father and mother ; and that he did not 
for a moment anticipate anything like disap- 
proval from either of them. The rector was too 
unhappy to take courage or comfort. But he 


COMING OF AON. 


193 


could not be shaken in his resolution that Phyllis 
should not join the party going north. 

Philip’s coming of age was to be celebrated 
merely by a gathering of the tenants at Bracken- 
burn Manor, a festivity which could not have 
taken place at all but for the death of Mr. 
Churchill, an event which had left the old house 
at Sidney’s disposal. They were strangers on 
their own estate, and had, therefore, no friendly 
neighbors to gather about them. Now that the 
rector so firmly refused all invitations, exceiit 
for his sons, there was a small party only going 
northward. Oddly enough, Sidney invited 
Andrew Goldsmith to accompany them. It was 
a sudden impulse and freak for which he could not 
account to himself. Pachel Goldsmith was ac- 
companying Margaret, as she still held the nom- 
inal post of her maid, and it did not seem alto- 
gether out of place to ask her brother Andrew. 

‘‘It’ll be a rare treat to me,” said the old sad- 
dler, “ for I’ve loved Mr. Philip, as if he’d been 
my own flesh and blood, ever since my lady 
brought him to my house as a little babe. Ah ! 
if he’d been Sophy’s boy I couldn’t have loved 
him more.” 

It was years since Sidney had heard Sophy’s 
name ; for, naturally, as time went on, the mem- 
ory of her, and of her strange disappearance and 
silence, had withdrawn into the background of 
life, and only two or three hearts, that had been 
stricken sorely by her loss, kept her in remem- 
brance. They had no hope now of finding her; 


194 


HALF BROTHERS. 


but no day passed in whicli her father and Rachel 
did not think of her, and still wonder, with sad 
bewilderment, what could have become of her. 

It was early in December : the few leaves left 
in the topmost branches of the trees were brown 
and sere. The wide moors rising behind Bracken- 
burn were brown too, but there were purple and 
gray tints on them — dun, soft tints that looked 
very beautiful under the low sky and slowly 
drifting clouds. To Dorothy it was an unmingled 
pleasure to revisit, in this manner, her birthplace, 
and to see its empty rooms peopled by all those 
she had learned to love. The old familiar house, 
with its latticed windows shining through the 
luxuriant tendrils of ivy, which Sidney had left 
untrained, was quite unchanged ; but when she 
entered through the broad porch into the large 
old hall, she uttered a cry of delight. It was a 
transformed and brilliant place ; not the bare, 
barnlike entrance she remembered. Soft skins 
and rugs lay on the oak floor, and a large Are 
burned in the wide old chimney, which had 
always looked to her, when a child, like the 
mouth of a black cavern. On eacli side of the 
broad and shallow staircase there stood flower- 
ing plants on every step. The place was the 
same ; yet, oh, how different ! A rich color came 
into !her face, and her dark eyes glowed with 
happy excitement. Margaret was tired, and 
Dorothy, feeling almost like mistress and hostess 
in her old home, conducted her to her room, where 
Rachel was awaiting her lady’s arrival. 


COMING OF AGE. 


195 


Margaret was not in her nsnal health and spirits. 
There was always mingled with her joy in Philip’s 
birth, the memory of her father’s death the day 
afterward, and the solemn recollection of her 
own strange experience of dying, as if she had 
actually passed out of this world, and been sent 
back to it. Life had never been to her, since that 
memorable time, the commonplace existence of 
her mere physical or intellectual being. She 
had lived more by the soul than by the mind or 
the body. These lower forms of life had pos- 
sessed their fullness for her. She had enjoyed 
the perfect health of her physical nature, with 
all the rich pleasures coming through the senses, 
and she had in a greater measure taken delight 
in intellectual pursuits. But, pre-eminently, she 
had lived in the spirit, and just now her spirit 
was overshadowed. There was a conflict coming 
near from which it shrank. 

She was troubled about Phyllis. The girl was 
dear to her from old associations and the intimacy 
of a lifetime ; but she could not think of her as 
Philip’s wife. No word had been spoken to her 
yet about this subject ; but it had been in the air 
for the last fortnight, and she could not be un- 
conscious of it. She had guessed the reason of 
the rector’s firm resolution of not coming to 
Brackenburn, and not letting Laura and Phyllis 
come. Sidney had not spoken of it ; but she 
thought he was troubled. But the most disquiet- 
ing symptom of a coming storm was that Philip 
kept silence, even to her. He never mentioned 


196 


HALF BllOTHEIiS. 


Phyllis ; but he was absent and low-spirited. 
This was the first sorrow, the first shadow of a 
cloud, coming over Margaret from her relation- 
ship with her husband and her son. Until now 
she had been able to speak as she thought before 
them, with quiet, unrestrained freedom. But 
there had sprung up, during the last few days, a 
novel feeling of restraint and embarrassment. 
Neither Sidney nor Philip uttered the name of 
Phyllis. 

After Dorothy had seen Margaret comfortably 
established in her room, she stole quietly and 
quickly out of the house, and hastened on to 
the moors. There was yet half an hour of the 
short December day, and she could not wait for 
the morrow. At the first low knoll she turned 
round to look back upon the old Manor House, 
with its iiicturesque gables and large stacks of 
chimneys. She knew now better than she used to 
do how very beautiful it was. The sun was set- 
ting, and the low light shone full upon the small 
diamond panes of the many windows, and cast 
deep shadows from the eaves, and brought into 
stronger relief the antique carvings on the heavy 
beams of oak. She felt proud of the place — as 
proud as if it had been her own. 

“Why did you never tell us how pretty it 
was asked Philip’s voice ; and turning round, 
she saw him coming up to her over the soundless 
turf. 

“I never knew, ” she answered, almost stain- 


COMING OF AGE. 


197 


meringly ; “I never thought it was as lovely as 
this. Yet I’ve seen it from this very spot thou- 
sands of times. Why did it look so sad to me 
then, and so beautiful now ? ” 

She looked up into his face as if it was a very 
knotty question for him to consider, and his 
grave expression relaxed a little as he answered 
her. 

‘‘You were not very happy here then,” he 
suggested. 

“ I never knew a happy day till I knew your 
father,” she replied ; “and I’ve never known an 
unhappy one since. Is it happiness that makes 
a place look lovely ?” 

If it was so, thought Philip, this place could 
have no beauty for him. Phyllis was not there, 
and his heart was very heavy for her absence. 
And not only for her absence, but from a grow- 
ing dread of meeting with an opposition he had 
not anticipated. It was significant to him of 
trouble that his father and mother never spoke 
of Phyllis in his presence ; he did not know 
that they were equally silent with one another. 
Though it was the rector who had prevented her 
from coming north, he could not help guessing 
that it was his father who had, in some way, been 
the real liinderer. The rector could have no 
objection to himself as Phyllis’s suitor, and he 
felt sure that he at least had looked upon him as 
her future husband. Phyllis, too, was certain of 
it, and so were the boys. He was only waiting 


198 


HALF BROTHERS. 


till lie came of age, and stepped into his right of 
free and independent manhood, to tell his father 
that he had chosen Phyllis as his wife. 

“It is not only happiness that makes a place 
lovely,’’ pursued Dorothy, after a pause, “ it is 
being with people one loves. Do you see that 
window just touched by the end of a branch 
of those Scotch firs? Your mother is in that 
room. I cannot see her, of course ; but that 
window is more beautiful to me because I know 
she is there. And I know all the rooms, and 
how they will be occupied ; and the whole house 
is full of interest to my mind. So that even if it 
was an ugly place, it could not be altogether 
ugly to me.” 

There was a pleasant ring in her voice which 
was new to Philip’s ear. He [looked long and 
earnestly at the old house, which some day 
would belong to him, unless it was pulled down 
to make room for a finer mansion. It already 
belonged to him because it belonged to his fa- 
ther. It was a beautiful old place, with the gray 
stones of the strong wall surrounding it made 
warm with golden mosses ; jand the front of 
the house covered with undipped ivy-branches, 
hanging in glistening festoons from every point 
of vantage. Such a place could not be built or 
made. Why should he be such a Goth as to erect 
a brand-new mansion, which could possess no 
such charm and beauty until he, and generations 
of his sons, were moldering in their graves ? 

“Wouldn’t it be a pity to pull it down?” 


COMING OF AGE. 


199 


asked Dorothy, as if she read his thoughts ; “but 
Phyllis would find the rooms too small, and too 
low for her. I described it to her one day, and 
drew a sort of plan of it ; and she said it was only 
a big rambling farmhouse, and you must build a 
much grander place, because Sir John Martin left 
a large sum of money to build it with. So I 
thought, was it quite impossible for me to buy it, 
and you build a house somewhere near it ? Then 
we should always be neighbors ; and it is very 
lonely here in the winter. Do you think Phyllis 
would like to live here in the winter ? ” 

It was sweet to him to hear Phyllis’s name 
spoken in this way ; no one had uttered it in his 
presence for a fortnight except the boys, and 
they spoke it with a sort of jeer, as brothers 
sometimes do. Dorothy’s gentle voice lingered 
shyly over it. He looked down into her shining 
eyes with a smile in his own. 

“We must not talk of Phyllis living here yet,” 
he said, “not till the day after to-morrow.” 

“Let us go a little higher up the moors,” she 
said, “ I know every little track, and beck, and 
dingle for miles round. When I lived here with 
my father, I used to sit an hour or two with him 
every day, on the other side of the table, read- 
ing aloud, and answering the questions he asked 
me. But he never talked to me, or took me on 
his knee, or kissed me ; and I thought all fathers 
were the same. The rest of the day I had 
to myself, and I spent my time here, out of 
doors.” 


200 


HALF BROTHERS. 


‘‘And in the winter when there was snow or 
rain?’’ asked Philip. . 

“I read all day long,” she went on. “See 
on the roof there, between two gables, is a little 
dormer window. There iny secret room is. I 
really believe nobody knew of it but me ; and I 
used to stay there till I was nearly starved and 
famished. But there was no one to ask me 
where I had been, or what I’d been doing.” 

“Poor child!” said Philip unconsciously. 
The color mounted to Dorothy’s face, and she 
turned away from him a little. 

“It is all different now,” she continued, after 
a momentary silence,; “ you are all so kind and 
good to me. And I think sometimes that when 
my father died he too went to a place where 
everyone is good and kind to him and trys to 
make up to him for his life here ; for he was 
more lonely andjunhappy than I was. I was only a 
child, and he was a man. I should not like to 
feel that his death had made me so happy, if it 
has not made him happy too.” 

“My mother has always told us that death it- 
self comes to us out of the love of God,” said 
Philip. 

He had followed Dorothy along a narrow track, 
and now they were out of sight of the house. 
A wide, undulating upland, whose limits were 
almost lost in the darkening sky, stretched as far 
as the eye could see. The sun was gone down, 
but a frosty light lingered in the west. The keen, 


COMING OF AGE. 


201 


sweet air played around them ; and Dorothy 
drew in a deep breath, and stretched out her 
arms, with a caressing gesture, to the wide land- 
scape. She looked more at home here than 
Phyllis would have done. Phyllis would have 
seen but little beauty in so wild and solitary a 
spot. Perhaps it was better that she had not 
seen her future home for the first time in the 
winter. 

Philip retraced his steps, with Dorothy beside 
him, in a more tranquil frame of mind. She did 
not shun conversation about Phyllis; and though 
nothing was acknowledged between them, he was 
sure she knew of their love for one another. 
What was more likely than that Phyllis had 
told her ? 

They went back to the house slowly through 
the deepening twilight, Dorothy pointing out dis- 
tant objects which neither of them could distin- 
guish in the darkness, though she fancied she 
saw them, so familiar and so dear they were to 
her. He looked at the wide, open, dusky land- 
scape, and the broad sky above them, and the 
picturesque old house, with light shining through 
the many windows, from Dorothy’s point of 
view. But what would Phyllis think of it, with 
her dainty, fastidious ways, and her love of 
society ? 

As they passed through the great gates into 
the forecourt Andrew Goldsmith met them. 

“Well, Mr. Philip!” he said, “I don’t think 


202 


HALF BROTHERS. 


much of your place. The saddle and harness 
room is almost in ruins ; and the stables aren’t fit 
for anything better than cart horses. It’s not to 
be compared with Apley Hall ; and the sooner 
you begin to build yourself a suitable mansion 
the better.” 


CHAPTER XXyi. 

AT CROSS PURPOSES. 

For the next two days Philip was fully occu- 
pied in riding with his father to call upon the 
principal tenants, who had been already invited 
to commemorate his coming of age. He was quite 
a stranger to them, and Sidney knew but little of 
them. They were mostly farmers ; a fine, out- 
spoken, independent race of north- country men, 
very different in their ways and manners from the 
same class on Margaret’s estate in the south. 
Sidney made himself exceedingly popular with 
them ; and Philip was almost surprised at his 
father’s tone of easy friendliness with his ten- 
ants. But Sidney was, as he told himself, enjoy- 
ing the happiest season of his very prosperous 
life. Putting aside that little trouble about 
Phyllis, which would prove no more than a boy’s 
fancy, he gave the reins to his feelings of exulta- 
tion and rejoicing. He was very proud of this 
handsome, athletic, well-bred young Englishman, 
who was his eldest son and heir, the apple of his 
eye through all these twenty-one years, since he 
welcomed his first-born into the world. He was 
secretly afraid of yielding to the tender recollec- 
tions that crowded into his brain as his son rode 
beside him, and, therefore, he flung himself more 

903 


204 


HALF BROTHERS. 


fully into an open demonstration of his pleasure 
in introducing him to his future tenants. He 
told them that the Manor House would not be let 
again, but that Philip would soon be coming to 
dwell among them for a great part of the year, 
and take his position as a country squire. He 
could never quit the south and the near neigh- 
borhood of London himself, but, with his son liv- 
ing up here, he would naturally be often among 
them, and would get better acquainted with 
them. 

The great dinner given to the tenants and the 
afternoon merry-making passed off well, as such 
festivities usually do. But Dorothy, not Philip, 
was the real center of interest. She had grown 
up under their observation, a neglected, forlorn, 
uncared-for child, thought little of by all of 
them ; and suddenly, on her father’s death, she 
had been made known to them as a great heiress. 
She was an astonishment to them all, especially 
to the women ; the elegance of her dress, the 
frank and simple grace of her manner, her daugh- 
ter-like familiarity with Mr. and Mrs. Martin 
amazed them. When she joined in an easy 
country dance, with Philip as her partner, there 
was only one thought in the mind of each of 
them : This poor little Cinderella was destined to 
marry the young son and heir. 

If Andrew and Rachel Goldsmith had not 
known better they would have thought the same. 
Even Dick and the other boys, who had come 
north to be present at these festivities, said to 


AT CROSS PURPOSES. 


205 


one another that Phyllis was not missed. 
Dorothy was very much more the daughter of 
the house than Phyllis could ever have been. 
She was at home, and she felt as if the success 
of these rejoicings depended partly upon her. 
For the first time, too, she was free from the de- 
pressing influence of Phyllis’s superiority ; and 
Laura was not there, with her chilling, criticis- 
ing gaze. No one could be insensible to the 
charm of Dorothy’s gay spirits and sweet kindli- 
ness. 

But as soon as the last guest was gone Philip 
went off alone up the moors. The moon was at 
the full, and poured a flood of light on the twink- 
ling surface of the silent little tarns sleeping in 
the hollows. The frosty sky was shot with pale 
red lines in the north, and a thick bank of clouds, 
the "edge of which was tinged with moonlight, 
stretched across the south. He did not wander 
out of sight of the black massive block of the 
old Manor, but all day he had longed to be alone, 
and here he was safely alone. The day he had 
been looking forward to, which had been talked 
of, in his hearing, for as long as he could re- 
member, was come, and was almost gone. He 
felt distinctly older to-day than he was yester- 
day. No birthday had had a similar effect upon 
him. Yesterday he was a boy, bound to obey 
his father’s will ; to-day he was himself a man. 
Not wiser perhaps, not clearer-headed, or stronger 
in principle than yesterday; but free, with a 
more real liberty. His actions hereafter would 


206 


HALF BBOTIIERS. 


be more definitely liis own, for he would be act- 
ing more fully on his own responsibility, and at 
his own discretion. He had always loved his 
father profoundly, with a depth and distinctness 
rare in a boy ; and Sidney had missed no oppor- 
tunity of gaining and strengthening the affection 
of his sons. But of late Philip had learned to 
appreciate his mother’s peculiar character more 
than he had done in his earlier youth ; and if he 
had asked himself whom he now loved and trusted 
most implicitly his heart would have said his 
mother. 

For he could not go to his father with the 
story of his love for Phyllis, and be sure of a x)a- 
tient hearing. He shrank from doing the duty 
that must at once be done. Until the last few 
weeks he had not felt any doubt of his father’s 
and mother’s consent to his marriage with Phyllis ; 
but he felt now a vague presentiment that his 
father would say he had never thought of such a 
thing, and could not approve of it. Phyllis’s 
unexpected absence from these rejoicings had 
marred the pleasure of the day to him, and filled 
him with anxiety. She ought to have been at 
his side, instead of Dorothy, laughing a little 
scoffingly at the speeches made ; his own among 
them. He loved Phyllis’s little sarcasms. 

But why did he feel as if he had been guilty 
of concealment and disingenuousness ; he, who 
was so jealous of his honor, and so proud of 
speaking to his father with utter singleness of 
heart? How was it that he became conscious. 


AT GROSS PURPOSES. 


207 


uneasily conscious, for the first time, that his 
love for Phyllis was possibly unknown to his 
parents ? It was no secret at the Rectory, that 
he was sure of ; unless the rector himself was 
ignorant of it. Why had he never spoken openly 
of it with his mother as he had done with 
Phyllis’s mother? When did he begin to hide 
this thing from his parents ? And why ? He 
could not answer these questions to himself. He 
felt himself caught in a net, a very fine net, of 
circumstances ; but how it had been woven about 
him he could not tell. 

His mother was gone to her room when he 
returned to the house, being overtired ; and 
Dorothy was with her. There was a dance going 
on among the servants in the great kitchen, and 
his cousins were there amusing themselves. All 
the rest of the house looked deserted and cheer- 
less, with the disorder that follows upon any 
festivities. Philq) recalled with surprise how 
happy he had felt, in spite of Phyllis’s absence, 
only an hour or two ago. The cheers of his 
future tenants sounded again in his ears ; and 
the proud gladness of his father, and tender 
gladness of his mother, came back to him with a 
sting of reproach ; but still it was his reticence 
that troubled him. He did not fear any strong 
opposition to his wishes when they knew that his 
love for Phyllis was unchangeable. They could 
not have any objection to Phyllis. 

Sidney was sitting in the corner of a huge fire- 
place, where a fire was burning cheerfully, and 


208 


HALT BROTHERS. 


Philip sat down opposite to him. For once his 
father was absolutely 'unoccupied, musing with 
a smile upon his handsome face, as if he was 
reading all the happy past and the brilliant pres- 
ent in the leaping flames and glowing coals upon 
the hearth. There was no sign of old age ujDon 
him. In fact, he was still in the prime of life ; 
strong, athletic, vigorous, with an air of intel- 
lectual keenness and power, which set him high 
above average men. Philip felt as proud of him 
as he did of Philip. He looked across at his son 
with a light in his eyes as undimmed as if he had 
been himself a boy. 

‘‘A man now ! ” he said, as if he welcomed him 
across the line that had lain between him and 
manhood ; “a man like myself ! ” 

‘‘Yes, a man!’’ said Philip abruptly, “with 
a man’s heart and a man’s love like yours. 
Father, I love Phyllis as you love my mother.” 

Sidney was not prepared to receive the blow so 
soon and so suddenly ; it was struck at him in 
the very zenith of his happiness. But he had 
expected it to fall sooner or later, and had laid 
his plan of action. He hoped that Philip was 
not yet involved in an engagement, and that it 
would be possible to temporize, to use such tactics 
as would set him free from the snare. His face 
clouded over a little, but he still gazed affection- 
ately in his son’s face. 

“Of course, you have said nothing to her, as 
you have not spoken of it to me or your mother,” 
he said. 


AT CROSS PURPOSES, 2O0 

“There was no need to say anything/’ answered 
Philip, stammering. “Why, father, she and I 
have been brought up for one another ! I cannot 
remember the time when I did not think she 
would be my wife. Neither slie nor I have 
thought of anyone else.” 

“Does your mother know this inquired his 
father in measured tones. 

“I don’t know,” he replied ; “I suppose not.” 

“Who, then?” asked Sidney. 

“Oh! all of them; every one of them,” he 
said, “ except my mother and you. I thought 
you knew of it till a few weeks ago.” 

“Does the rector know?/’ pursued Sidney. 

Philip j)aused a little. 

“I cannot say yes for certain,” he answered, 
“for the rector seems to live in another world 
from ours ; but I never doubted it till he refused 
to let Phyllis come here with us. And I never 
meant to conceal it from my mother and you ; it 
seemed such a settled matter, and you were both 
so fond of Phyllis. I cannot understand how or 
why this moment is so painful to me. I thought 
I could ask you for Phyllis as I have asked you 
for everything else I wanted all my life long.” 

“Did I ever refuse you anything that was for 
your good ? ” asked Sidney, his voice, which was 
always pleasant and persuasive, falling into 
softer tones. 

“Never, father, never 1 ” he answered eagerly. 

“But I must refuse you this. Listen!” h<j 
said, as Philip was about to interrupt him 


210 


HALF BROTHERS. 


“Such an idea never entered your mother’s mind 
or mine. The children at the Rectory were 
brought up with you as if you were one family. 
I had utter confidence in the rector and his wife. 
If I had seei^ anything to make me suspect an 
attachment between you and Phyllis, I should 
have separated you at once. Brought up for one 
another ! I see it clearly at last. The plot has 
been artfully contrived, and cleverly carried out. 
You are the dupe of a cunning and worldly woman. 
I cast no blame upon Pliyllis herself. But, my 
boy, Phyllis is born to be the wife of a rich man ; 
she would make a bad wife for a poor one. Think 
for yourself if you could ask Phyllis to share 
poverty with you.” 

“But I shall not be a poor man ! ” exclaimed 
Philip. All day long circumstances had im- 
pressed upon him the fact that the career of a 
very rich man lay before him, and[he was almost 
shocked by his father’s words. 

“ You are a poor man until I die,” said Sidney, 
rising and stretching himself to his fulli height. 
His tall and muscular frame was as vigorous and 
powerful as Philip’s own, and his life at fifty was 
probably as good as liis son’s at one-and- twenty. 
“ How soon would you wish me to die, Philip ? ” 
he asked in a mournful tone. 

“Oh, father!” he cried; “how can you say 
such words ? I could not bear the tliought of you 
dying.” 

“But till then you are dependent upon me,” 
continued Sidney, “and you cannot ask me to 


AT CBOSS PURPOSES. 


211 


give you the means of bringing trouble on your 
mother and myself. I shall probably live another 
twenty-five or thirty years. Consider how Phyl- 
lis would like the life you could offer her. I do 
not say I would let you come to want ; but if I 
allowed you no more than £800 or £1000 a year, 
would that satisfy her ? ” 

Philip was silent. There was reason in what 
his father said. Phyllis would look upon £800 
a year as poverty. As long as he could recollect, 
she had chafed and fretted about the narrow in- 
come of her father, and openly expressed her in- 
tention of not living as carefully and economi- 
cally as her mother was compelled to do. Cer- 
tainly Phyllis was not fit to be a poor man’s 
wife, even if that poor man had an allowance of 
£800 or £1000 a year. 

“ But I have always thought of her as my 
wife,” he broke out passionately; ‘‘and I can- 
not give her up. Think how happy you have 
been with my mother ; and why should you deny 
me similar happiness ? ” 

“ Because Phyllis is nothing like your mother,” 
answered Sidney, his eyes sparkling with anger. 
“ Good Heavens 1 do you compare that empty- 
headed butterfly with my Margaret ? Your 
mother would be happy in a cottage with her 
sons and her husband, as happy as she is now in 
her own house. If I thought for a moment that 
Phyllis would be such a wife to you as your 
mother is to me, I would consent willingly, 
though she could never be like a daughter to me. 


212 


HALF BROTHERS. 


Phyllis would separate you from me. We should 
soon be as strangers to one another.’’ 

‘‘ No, no ! ” he said ; “you have always seemed 
to love Phyllis, and so has my mother. What 
can you object to in her? Her father is your 
own nearest relation and friend. Everybody in 
Apley knows we have been always thrown to- 
gether, as if we were some day to be married. 
Let me know your objections, your reasons. No 
one came between you and the woman you loved. 
Why should you not allow me to choose for my- 
self ?” 

“Because you have not really chosen for your- 
self,” answered his father. “Your nature has 
been played upon ever since your childhood. I 
can see it all now, and understand it. Phyllis is 
not to blame; but Phyllis’s mother has laid 
her plot, and carried it out very successfully. 
Brought up for one another ! Did your mother 
and I ever speak of your being brought up for 
Phyllis?” 

“I cannot give her up now!” exclaimed 
Philip. 

“Ask your mother if Phyllis would make you 
a true wife,” urged his father. 

“But I could not give her up,” he reiterated. 
“ It would break my poor Phyllis’s heart. Every 
year of my life binds me to her ; every feeling of 
honor as well as of love. No ; it would be im- 
possible. It is of no use to consult my mother. 
I will tell her I must marry Phyllis, and I will 
beg of her to look upon her as a daughter. In 


AT GROSS PURPOSES. 


213 


the sight of God I believe Phyllis is my wife, 
and I should not be free to marry anyone else. 
You will give your consent in time, father.’’ 

‘‘Never ! ” liis father answered with mingled 
anger and sadness. “You will be a poor man as 
long as I live. Tell Laura Martin she and her 
daughter must wait for my money till my death.” 


CHAPTER XXYIL 

WHO WILL GIVE WAY ? 

The conflict Avliicli Laura Martin had foreseen 
years ago was at last begun between herself and 
Sidney, and she was prepared for it. But she 
was not prepared to meet with two firm oppon- 
ents in her husband and Margaret. Her plans 
liad been based on the assumption that these two, 
Philip’s mother and Phyllis’s father, in their 
complete unworldliness and contempt for money, 
would be on her side ; and Sidney would be left 
practically alone. But now the rector’s eyes 
were open they saw matters in a very clear light ; 
and his soul was filled with shame. He was 
invulnerable to all attacks ; even to the tears of 
his precious child, and to Laura’s repeated assur- 
ances that Phyllis would break her heart if she 
could not marry Philip. The rector was almost 
crushed under this heavy trouble, but he did not 
yield his position for a moment. He could not 
give his approval or consent to the marriage until 
Sidney gave his. Xor would he have Philip 
coming to the rectory. Margaret was equally 
firm. She knew Phyllis’s nature thoroughly. 
The girl was dear to her ; for her wide charity, 
which strove to love all that God loved— and did 
not God love every soul of man ? — embraced this 

814 


WHO WILL GIVE WAT? 


215 


child, whom she had known from her birth, with 
a special and very close affection. But she knew 
her to be of the world — very emphatically of the 
world. She believed her to be destitute of real 
spiritual life. As a clergyman’ s daughter Phyllis 
was fairly orthodox, though with her, as with 
many clergymen’s children, there was a great 
lack of reverence for sacred subjects ; she made 
a jest of many things which, to Margaret, were 
full of mystery and solemnity. But Margaret 
attached little importance to outer forms and 
rites, and it was at the spirit of Phyllis’s life she 
looked. That spirit was distinctly selfish and 
worldly. Margaret knew that she could not 
make Philip happy as his wife, and she refused 
to sacrifice liis future welfare to the gratification 
of the moment. The question of Phyllis’s for- 
tune or station never crossed Margaret’s mind. 

But Laura was not to be daunted. Philip and 
Phyllis were as obstinate in maintaining their 
position as she could wish them to be. There 
was no concealment now. Philip formally an- 
nounced their engagement to his personal friends 
and to the people at Apley. Sidney was amazed 
and angry to discover how it was taken as a 
matter of course by these nearest spectators of 
his domestic drama. They had witnessed the 
side-play distinctly, while his own eyes were 
hoodwinked. Andrew Goldsmith was the first 
to speak to him about it. 

“They’ve grown up for one another, sir,” he 
said, “and we’ve seen it all along; and I trust 


216 


HALF BROTHERS. 


they will be happy. But Rachel and me, weVe 
often thought of late how much better Miss 
Dorothy would have suited him, if she’d only 
been in Miss Phyllis’s place. Rachel says Miss 
Dorothy is growing up to be the very copy of my 
lady, true to the life of her. And what could we 
have wished more for Mr. Philip P’ 

‘‘Goldsmith,” answered Sidney, “I will tell 
you, and you may tell others, that I disapprove 
of my son’s engagement, and will never give my 
consent to this marriage.” 

“But it’s a hard thing to choose another man 
his wife, sir,” urged Andrew, who knew perfectly 
well the conflict now raging between the Hall and 
the Rectory. “I’ve thought often enough of that 
when Pve been thinking of my poor girl. I was 
an austere father, though I loved her as my own 
soul ; and she was afraid to tell me who it was 
she loved. It would have been better for her, if 
she’d lived ever so miserably, to have our love to 
comfort her. Now we are lost to one another 
altogether. If Miss Phyllis shouldn’t make Mr. 
Philip very happy, he would still have you, and 
his mother, and Mr. Hugh. Ah! I’d rather see 
my Sophy a miserable wife than know nothing 
about her. There’s an aching void here in my 
heart, and must be forever in this world ; and I 
pray God you and my lady -may never feel the 
same.” 

“You have not forgotten her yet,” said Sid- 
ney in a tone of pain that went straight to the 
old man’s heart. 


WHO WILL GIVE WAT? 


217 


“Nor never shall,” he answered ; “first thing 
in the morning and last thing at night, a voice 
says to me, ‘ Sophy ! ’ Ay ! I should have gone 
crazy but for you and yours. It’s the kindness 
and friendship you and Miss Margaret have 
shown to me that has kept my reason for me. 
And my reason says, ‘ Mr. Martin ought not to 
break with his first-born son because he has 
chosen a wife for himself. No man can know 
the heart 'of another man. And life is short ; 
and death may cut us off at any minute.’ I don’t 
say as I would give way so as to let them marry 
in a hurry, for they are young and don’t know 
their own minds yet. But set them a time to 
wait, and let him serve for her as Jacob did for 
Rachel ; and if they love one another truly, and 
are faithful for Jtlie season you fix upon, then 
give your consent to their being happy in their 
own way. We can’t be happy in other people’s 
way.” 

“I will think of it. Goldsmith,” Sidney 
promised. 

He watched the old man going down the road 
toward the village street, for they had returned 
to Apley, and his mind dwelt, almost involun- 
tarily, on the unknown tie which united them. 
Philip was exactly of the age he himself was 
when he contracted his foolish and secret mar- 
riage. He recalled his own hot passion for the 
pretty village girl, and how impossible it would 
have been for any argument to convince him that 
such love as his would quickly burn itself out, 


218 


HALF BROTHERS. 


and leave behind it only darkness, disgust, and 
misery. He had risked all, when he had all to 
risk, to gratify his boyish infatuation. But 
Philip Avould risk only the chance of poverty 
during his father’s lifetime ; and Sidney knew 
well he could, if he would, raise money on his 
future inheritance of an entailed estate. More- 
over, Philip’s love was given to one of his own 
rank in life, a girl of equal cultivation with him- 
self. It was not a brilliant match, but no one 
would be surprised at it. It seemed probable 
that he might in the end be compelled to make 
some terms with his son ; and would it not be 
politic to make them at once ? 

He went slowly homeward, haunted by more 
vivid remembrances of his early maridage than 
any that had troubled him for many years. The 
dead past had buried its dead ; but there is no 
stone rolled upon the sepulcher to make us sure 
of no resurrection. Suppose Philip had been 
Sophy’s son ! How widely different his training 
and his whole character must have been ! How 
different he himself would be at this moment, if 
Sophy had been his constant, intimate companion 
in the place of Margaret. He thought of it with 
a shudder of disgust. His love for Margaret 
had never known decrease or ebb ; it had grown 
stronger and deeper every year, but there was an 
element of almost sacred awe mingled with it. 
She was as much above him as Sophy had been 
below him. Hot that she felt this herself ; there 
was always in her a deference to his will which a 


WHO WILL GIVE WAT? 


2]9 


prouder woman would not have shown. But he 
recognized her as a purer, nobler, truer soul than 
himself. His marriage with her was no more an 
equal one than his marriage with Sophy. To-day 
he felt more nearly on a level with Sophy than 
with Margaret. 

She was standing in the pretty oriel window of 
her sitting room as he approached the house, and 
smiled down upon him with something of sadness 
in her smile, as he stood below looking up to her. 
She had never seemed more lovely in his eyes, or 
more distant. After all their married life of 
twenty-two years he knew himself a stranger to 
her, and he felt that he could get no nearer to 
her. What icy barrier was it existing between 
them, growing denser and stronger year after 
year, and which could not be melted by the 
warmth of their love? For they loved one 
another — Sidney did not doubt that; Margaret’s 
first love had been his. Yet there was a great 
gulf between them ; and his spirit could not go 
to her, nor hers come to him. 

He went upstairs and received a fond welcome 
from her, as he sat down beside her on a sofa. 
She laid her hand on his, and he lifted it to his 
lips ; and then he felt her kiss upon his forehead, 
a caressing, almost maternal touch, such as she 
might have given to her son Philip. Both of 
these beloved ones were wounded, and botli came 
to her for consolation. Sidney told her wliat old 
Andrew Goldsmith had been saying. 

‘‘ Perhaps he is right,” said Margaret thought- 


220 


HALF BROTHERS. 


fully; “we should remember that Philip is 
something more than our son. He is a man and 
has rights with which we ought not to interfere. 
Dearest, it is a bitter disappointment to me to 
think of Phyllis as my boy’s wife. But who can 
tell ? If she truly loves him it may be her salva- 
tion ; and if he truly loves her, no one else, not 
an angel from heaven, could be his wife as she 
would be, and as I am yours. We may be striv- 
ing against God’s will, whose love for Philip is 
infinitely greater and wiser than ours can be.” 

“But, my darling,” he remonstrated, “you 
speak of God’s will ; and all this is but the out- 
come of Laura’s machinations. That is only too 
plain. If I believed it to be a simple, true, 
enduring love on both sides, I would not oppose 
it so strongly. And it would be an extreme 
mortification to let Laura triumph.” 

“We must not think of that,” she said, smiling. 
“I have felt it, too, Sidney; but the mortifica- 
tion has passed over. It is natural enough they 
should love one another; they are both very 
attractive, and they have seen no one else. Let 
us do as Andrew suggests, fix a time for them to 
wait and test their attachment. And let Philip 
have a year or two abroad, as you had Avhen you 
were his] age. His mind will be enlarged. We 
have kept him too much at home ; and home has 
been too dear for him to care to wander from it. 
But he is not so happy now, and he will be 
willing to go away for awhile.” 

“He shall,” assented Sidney; “and I will 


WHO WILL GIVE WAT? 


221 


make him promise not to corresiiond with Phyllis 
during his absence.” 

But Philip Avould make no such xiromise. He 
maintained that it was an unworthy course to 
adopt toward his future wife. He was willing to 
wait any reasonable number of years that his 
parents thought right to ask from him, but in no 
way would he separate himself from Phyllis. It 
would be easier, he declared, to cut off his right 
hand, or pluck out his right eye. He left home 
for a long and indefinite absence, and his letters 
came to Phyllis as regularly and as frequently as 
to his mother. To his father he did not write. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

HOMESICKNESS. 


From this first break in the perfect union of 
their home Margaret suffered less than she would 
have done but for the companionship of Dorothy. 
The giiTs nature was one of strong, simple, and 
pure impulses ; and her mind, though uncul- 
tivated in the ordinary acceptation of the word, 
was clear and intelligent. Margaret could speak 
to her, more fully than to anyone else, of the 
exceptional spiritual life she was living. There 
were thoughts and feelings in her soul, inmost 
impressions, to which she found it was impos- 
sible to give utterance. It was a life hid with 
Christ in God. But Dorothy seemed able to 
comprehend something of these workings of her 
mind, if only she caught a syllable here and 
there, which told of Margaret’s profound realiza- 
tion of the love in which all men lived and 
moved. Probably Dorothy’s long years of soli- 
tary childhood spent on the open moors, in con- 
tact with simple and grand aspects of nature, had 
kept her spirit open to such impressions as 
Margaret’s mysticism, if it could be called mysti- 
cism, produced upon her. These two, like exiles 
in a strange land, clung to one another with, an 
intense sympathy and love. 


HOMESICKNESS. 


223 


But tliis attachment to Margaret did not 
diminish Dorothy’s devotion to Sidney. There 
was a touch of romance in this devotion. He 
seemed to her to be the deliverer who had opened 
her prison doors and brought her out into a 
happy freedom. In these first hours of his dis- 
appointment in Philip, her presence in his home 
tended to soften the bitterness of his vexation. 
Laura thought that she kept Phyllis out of her 
proper place ; but it was, in fact, due to Dorothy 
that Phyllis continued to visit at the Hall. She 
would not let Philip’s future wife be banished 
from his parents’ house. The girlish acquaint- 
ance which had hitherto existed between them 
ripened into a girlish intimacy ; and Phyllis was 
almost as often at the Hall as formerly. It was 
a comfort to Margaret that it should be so ; and 
even Sidney felt it was wiser to maintain a certain 
degree of intercourse with his future daughter- 
in-law. He could not blame her as he blamed 
Laura. 

In all this Laura felt that her schemes so far 
had not miscarried. She had never expected 
Sidney to welcome an engagement between his 
son and her daughter ; it was too poor a match, 
and here Laura sympathized with him. But his 
opposition to it was less violent than she might 
have anticipated. All was going well with 
Phyllis ; and now if Dick would only woo and 
win the young heiress she would be perfectly 
content. Dick was quite willing to fall into 
her plans. She spent many really happy hour^ 


224 


HALF BROTHERS. 


in forecasting and arranging for them. Though 
Margaret was younger than herself, and in ])er- 
fect health, and Sidney no older than her hus- 
band, and more likely than not to outlive all his 
contemporaries, she frequently thought of them 
both as dead, and Philip possessing the estates, 
and Phyllis reigning in Margaret’s place. She 
expected to behold these things with her own 
eyes, and share in the glory of them. That she 
herself might grow old and die, while Philip 
and her daughter were still in comparative poverty 
and dei^endent upon Sidney, very seldom occurred 
to her. It was a contingency she could not bear 
to think of. 

It was a much quieter winter at Aj)ley than 
usual. There was no political excitement to 
occupy Sidney, and Hugh was visiting some of his 
Oxford friends during the short Christmas vaca- 
tion. A few guests, staying two or three days 
each, came to Apley Hall. But there was no 
special festivity at which Laura could have made 
an open display of her daughter as betrothed to 
the son and heir. The few friends who came were 
fully aware of the circumstance, and sympathized 
very cordially with the disapprobation felt by 
Sidney and Margaret. Philip was wandering 
about Italy, and wrote frequently to Phyllis. The 
opposition to his love, of which he had never 
dreamed, naturally deepened it. He felt ag- 
grieved and amazed that his father and mother 
should see any defect in her ; and this made him 
exaggerate her charms and good qualities, until 


HOMESICKNESS. 


225 


slie seemed perfect in his eyes. Yet her letters 
were poor and meager, betraying an empty head, 
and an almost equally empty heart. 

In spite of the novelty of the impressions crowd- 
ing upon him, especially in Rome, this winter 
was, on the wliole, a dreary — a very dreary — time 
to him. For the first time he was separated from 
everybody whom he loved ; even Dick could not 
spare a year of his life to travel about with him. 
He saw no one but strangers, until he longed to 
see some one familiar face. He began to feel 
himself banished ; and at times he suffered from 
genuine homesickness. His mother wrote long 
letters to him ; letters as precious in his eyes as 
Phyllis’s; to any other eyes as gold to tinsel. 
But his father did not write; it was the only 
sign of his displeasure. The checks sent out to 
him were liberal beyond his requirements ; but 
no message came with them. There was a silent 
strife between his father and himself, a warfare 
of their wills, both of them strong and unyield- 
ing. It was as great a grief to Philip as to 
Sidney. 

The spring came in early, and with unusual 
heat, in Italy. Much rain had fallen in February 
and March, and with the sudden outburst of heat 
there was an unwholesome season and a good 
deal of fever. Down in Sicily, and even in 
Naples, there were some fatal cases of cholera. 
A few of the English visitors, thronging to Rome 
for Easter, died of malaria ; probably not a larger 
number than usual, but they happened to be 


226 


HALF BROTHERS. 


persons of some note, whose deaths were reported 
in the daily papers, with a few lines of comment. 
Sidney read the notes from the Italian corre- 
spondents before looking at any other column of 
the Times, Laura and Phyllis grew anxious, 
and professed their anxiety loudly. But Philip 
wrote regularly, though in his now wonted strain 
of low spirits ; and Sidney could see no reason 
for shortening his term of banishment. He had 
not been away four months yet ; and there was 
no sign of any decrease of his infatuation. 

Philip sent word he was going north to Venice, 
where the weather was reported as cool and fine. 
But about the end of April there came a letter 
from him complaining of low fever ; and after 
that there was silence for a few days, a silence 
which filled them with apprehension. Then 
arrived a note from an American doctor, living in 
Venice, saying that he was attending Mr. Philip 
Martin, and that he was suffering from a com- 
bined attack of nostalgia and malaria, [which 
might, not improbably, take a serious turn, and 
which could be best counteracted by the presence 
of his father or mother, or one equally dear to 
him. 

‘‘I must go to him, at once,” cried Margaret. 
“I was expecting this. I knew it would come 
sooner or later ; and, O Sidney, it is I who 
must go. He fancies he loves Phyllis best, but 
his love for me will be strongest now, for a time 
at least. And Phyllis cannot nurse him as I can ; 
his own mother ! I can be ready in an hour.” 


,H0MESICKNES8. 


227 


“You shall go,’’ answered Sidney, “and I 
will take you. I would give my life for his. Is 
not he my first-born child as well as yours ? ” 

As he made the hurried arrangements — looking 
out the trains, giving orders at home, and send- 
ing telegrams up to the City — his brain was full 
of remembrances of his son. It seemed but 
yesterday that he was a boy at school, idolizing 
his father ; not longer than the day before yester- 
day that he was a little child, venturing on its 
first perilous journey across the fioor from its 
mother’s arms to its father’s. He felt that the 
fibers of his heart were all interwoven with his 
son’s life ; and there was a new and terrible pain 
there. What if Philip should cut the knot of 
their estrangement by dying ? 

The carriage was ready to take them to the 
station, and Margaret was seated in it, when the 
rector and his wife came breathlessly up to it. 
Laura was wringing her hands in excitement and 
terror. 

“Oh! you must wait for Phyllis!” she ex- 
claimed. “You cannot go without her ; and she 
went only this morning to Leamington on a short 
visit. She will be back to-night, in time to start 
first thing to-morrow morning. It will break her 
heart if you go without her.” 

“We cannot wait ten minutes,” answered 
Sidney, “it is impossible. But I will telegraph 
as soon as we reach Venice ; and if there is any 
danger,” and his voice faltered as he ntter^'d the 
word, “George must bring her out at once.” 


228 


HALF BROTlIEm. 


“ Oil ! if she could only go with you ! ” cried 
Laura. 

At this moment Dorothy appeared in a travel- 
ing dress. For some years past Rachel Gold- 
smith had been too old to travel, and Margaret, 
who was always independent of a maid, had not 
engaged anyone in her idace. There was a smile 
on Dorothy’s face as she ran down the steps to 
the carriage. 

“I am coming to take care of my lady,” she 
said. “Rachel quite approves of it. She was 
almost beside herself till I said I would go. You 
must let me come. Perhaps Phyllis ought to go 
instead, but she could not Avait on Mrs. Martin 
as I can. Besides, I am ready.” 

She looked pleadingly into Sidney’s face ; and 
he stood aside for her to enter the carriage where 
Margaret was sitting. 

“Yes, yes,” he said, “jumx) in; there’s no 
time to lose. Good-by, George. I will tele- 
graph if Phyllis is Avanted.” 

Laura watched the carriage rolling out of sight, 
with a new and unAvelcome misgiving. She had 
not been afraid of Dorothy before ; but she could 
not be blind to the great inqArovement in her 
since she had been under Margaret’s care. And 
now she Avas going out to share in nursing Philip 
as an invalid, and amusing him as a convalescent. 
But this must not be. George should start im- 
mediately in their Avake ; and Phyllis Avith him. 

Here, hoAvever, Laura Avas doomed to disap- 
pointment. The rector would not listen to reason. 


HOMESICKNESS. 


220 


When lie had once made up his mind upon any 
worldly matter he was an obstinate man ; and 
he was irrevocably resolved that he would play 
no part in furthering the marriage of his daugh- 
ter to Sidney’s son and heir. When Sidney 
telegrajjhed “Bring Phyllis,” then he would 
take her ; but not till then. 

It was well for both Sidney and Margaret that 
Dorothy was with them. Unlike her usual self, 
Margaret was despondent, and convinced that 
they could not reach Venice in time to find 
Philip alive ; and Sidney, seeing her so lost to 
hope, was stricken with a miserable dread. 
They made no pause for rest on the long journey ; 
and, but for Dorothy, they would hardly have 
taken food. It was an immense relief to her 
when, after many hours of traveling, she saw afar 
oif, in the midst of its shallow sea, the white domes 
and towers of Venice glistening in the sunlight. 
Sidney and Margaret had been there before ; and 
for them there was but one point of interest, their 
son lying ill, perhaps dying, under one of those 
glittering roofs. But Dorothy gazed out of the 
windows at the lagoons over which the strange 
railway was carrying her. She was very weary, 
and her eyelids were heavy and swollen with long 
wakefulness ; but the stretches of silvery water, 
with its low banks of soft sea-green weeds, were 
too beautiful not to arouse her. There were no 
trees or fields in sight : all around her lay a pale, 
tremulous plain of watei^ quivering under a clear 
vault of sky, and reflecting on its surface the 


230 


HALF BROTHERS. 


deep blue, flecked with little clouds, which over- 
arched it. 

They had telegraphed beforehand to Daniele’s, 
where Philip was staying, and a servant awaited 
the arrival of the train. The young English 
signore was better ; he had begun to recover as 
soon as he heard that his father and mother were 
on their way to come to him. The message was 
delivered in the hurry of passengers descending 
from the train ; but the relief it brought was in- 
stantaneous. They were led through a common- 
place station ; but as soon as they had passed 
through the great gates and stood on the top of a 
flight of broad steps, Dorothy could not restrain 
a cry of pleasure. Below them lay a busy crowd 
of gondolas, swinging and floating lightly on the 
water, and passing to and fro with the swiftness 
and accuracy of so many carriages, with neither 
collision or delay. There was no noise of wheels 
or the trampling of horses’ feet, only the cries of 
the gondoliers and the shouts of the officials who 
overlooked them. As soon as she found herself 
seated in one of them it threaded its way out of 
the throng with a skill that delighted her. Mar- 
garet sat back in the shelter of the awning, with 
tears of thankful gladness stealing now and then 
down her cheeks ; but Sidney, with the load 
suddenly rolled ofl his heart, took a place beside 
Dorothy, and pointed out to her the palaces and 
churches he knew so well. 

Dorothy was left alone when they readied 
Daniele’s, and she stood leaning on thecusliir'u d 


HOMESICKNESS. 


231 


window-sill of lier room, and looked out on the 
gay and busy quay below her, with all sense of 
weariness gone from her vigorous young frame. 
The air was very fresh and sweet, and the spark- 
ling water-roads stretched before her, with black 
gondolas flitting noiselessly to and fro, bringing 
to her ears the merry chatter of voices, in other 
cities drowned by the noise of wheels. Opposite 
to’^her a church of white marble delicately veined 
seemed to float upon the water, and beyond it 
stretched a shallow sea, rippling under the sun- 
shine. It looked like a city of enchantment to 
her. 

Presently Margaret came in, pale and weary 
with the long journey, but with the light of hap- 
piness in her eyes. Philip was better than she 
could have hoped ; there would be no real dan- 
ger, the doctor said, now that she was there to 
satisfy his longing to look upon some dear, fa- 
miliar face. 

“He is not even grieved that Phyllis is not 
come,’’ she said gladly, “he is just satisfled, 
with a perfect satisfaction, to see his father 
and me. After all there are seasons when no 
love contents us save a father’s love. We are 
but children, every one of us.” 

Late in the evening, after a long rest, Margaret 
sat beside Philip’s bed again, holding his nerve- 
less hand in her own. She could hardly believe 
that this pale, almost wasted face and languid 
frame was her strong young son, who had said 
farewell to her only a few months ago. He 


232 


HALF BROTHERS. 


seemed to have grown years older. He was graver 
and more tliouglitfiil. His manner toward her 
and his father was at once more independent and 
more full of a manly deference. His smile, as he 
looked into her face, was that of one who was 
more her equal than he had been when he parted 
from her. He had suffered, and suffering had 
lifted him nearer to her level. 

“ I understand you and my father better than 
I did,” he said. “ I see why you wonder at mj^ 
love for Phyllis ; yes, and I see why I love her. 
Possibly I should not love her now, if I saw her 
for the first time. But it has grown with my 
growth, and been secretly fostered and cherished, 
unknown to you botli. Still I thought you 
knew ; and I love her, and she loves me. We 
must venture upon life together, and if it is not 
as perfect a union as yours and my father’s, why, 
it is the most perfect I can make. I could not 
sacrifice Phyllis now, even to your reasonable 
objections.” 

‘‘ You love her enough to make you ill when 
you are away from her,” said liis mother, sighing, 
“ so we must withdraw our objections.” 

“Yes, I love her,” he replied; “but that is 
not so much the question as whether she loves 
me as much as ever. Think, dear mother. She 
has regarded herself as mine ever since we were 
little children together ; and with all her vivacity 
and charming spirits she has never even thought 
of attracting anyone else, or of being loved by 
any other man. She is all my own. If I could 


HOMESICKNESS. 


238 


give up my engagement out of love and obedience 
to you, I could not run the risk of breaking 
Phyllis’s high spirit — perhaps her heart. I dare 
not act like a scoundrel, even to please my 
father.” 

“Your father would never wish you to act 
like a scoundrel,” said Margaret in a pained 
tone; “but he withdraws his objections, and 
says you must come home again. Only we wish 
you not to marry for three years longer. But 
oh, my boy ! surely you can be happy at home 
as you were before, seeing her as you used to see 
her. You will yield to us this much ? You will 
not force us to consent to an earlier marriage 1 ” 

Philip drew his mother’s hand to his lips, and 
kissed it in silence. This was no moment of tri- 
umph to him, because he knew it to be one of 
pain to her. She had not demanded a great con- 
cession from him, and she had asked it doubt- 
ingly, almost humbly. It was amazing that his 
mother should petition him for anything, and he 
not to be able to rejoice in granting it. 

“ Yes, we will wait,” he said ; “we are both 
young enough to wait, but three years is a long 
time.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


IN VENICE. 

Philip’s recovery from the combined effects of 
low fever and homesickness progressed so favor- 
ably that Sidney soon felt at liberty to leave him 
in his mother’s care, and return to London, where 
his presence was becoming necessary. Venice 
was too much haunted by painful reminiscences 
for him to care to linger in it, even if he had the 
leisure to do so. He had been there once with 
Margaret, and had found it so hateful that he 
had hurried her away after a day or two, unable 
to endure its associations. There was no dread 
of this early marriage coming to light ; it was 
now nearly thirty years ago, and the past had 
given no sign yet of rising in judgment against 
him. It was only in a place like this, crowded 
with associations, and occasionally when old 
Andrew Goldsmith spoke of her, that he ever 
thought of Sophy. But the streets of Venice, 
singularly unlike the streets of any other city — 
and it was the last city they were in — brought 
the recollection of her to his mind with startling 
and sickening frequency. As soon as Philip was 
pronounced convalescent, he could bear it no 
longer. 

It was still the month of May, and Venice was 

234 


IN VENICE. 


235 


at its loveliest. The air was light, and soft, and 
warm, without too great heat. The little party 
left behind by Sidney had nothing to do but float 
about the border canals and the lagoons leading 
out to the sea all day long. More often than 
anywhere else, they sailed to the Lido, and sat 
on the sand-banks to breathe the keener and 
purer breezes blowing olf the Adriatic. They 
could not grow weary of watching for hours the 
fleet of fishing boats flitting to and fro on the 
green waters, most of them carrying gorgeous 
yellow sails with brown patterns on tliem, and 
stripes of pale yellow and white along the edges — 
sails that were heirlooms in the fishermen’s fam- 
ilies. Now and then a sail of the clearest white 
or the faintest primrose was seen ; and far away 
on the horizon, where the sky was bluish gray, 
the distant sails looked of a deep bronze and 
purple. All of them fluttered hither and thither 
as if they were large and gorgeous butterflies 
hovering over the waves. It was a sight they 
never wearied of. There was a rapture of de- 
light in it for Dorothy which caught Margaret 
and Philip into a keen participation in her en- 
joyment ; and the days passed by as if there was 
nothing else for them to do but to glide slowly 
about in their gondola and see the churches and 
palaces floating on the tranquil water, which so 
faithfully reflected them in form and color. 

It was but a brief pleasure, for as the month 
drew to an end a sudden outburst of heat came 
on, bringing with it the danger of a return of 


236 


HALF BROTHERS. 


Philip’s fever. Margaret called in the Ameri- 
can doctor, and he ordered an immediate retreat 
to the mountains. 

“ You will find it bracing enough in the 
Tyrol,” he said, ‘'and you cannot do better than 
go for a month or so to the Ampezzo Valley. In 
two days’ time you will find yourself at Cortina, 
where you will obtain fairly comfortable 
quarters. Or you might go to the Italian Lakes, 
if you thought better.” 

“No ; let us go to the Austrian Tyrol,” said 
Philip. 

“You must go to-morrow morning,” con- 
tinued the doctor. 

“ It only seems like a day since we came here,” 
said Dorothy regretfully, “one long beautiful 
day. I do not feel as if I had ever been asleep.” 

“It is quite time then for you to be off,” re- 
marked the doctor ; “you will be falling ill if you 
stay much longer. Take my word for it, you 
will enjoy the mountains as much as Venice 
when you get among them. There is nothing 
like the Dolomites.” 

But when the doctor was gone Dorothy en- 
treated for one more sail in a gondola. The sun 
was set, and the heated air was fast growing cool. 
The moon was at the full, and as they floated to- 
ward the lagoons, the lights of the city behind 
them shone like jewels. The sound of music 
reached their ears, softened by distance, from 
gayly illuminated gondolas bearing bands of 
musicians up and down the Grand Canal. As 


IN VENICE. 


23'7 


soon as they were beyond this sound, and only 
the faintest ripple of the water against their 
gondola could be heard, Dorothy began to sing 
snatches of old north-country ballads and simple 
old-fashioned songs, in a soft undertone, with 
now and then a cadence of sadness in it, which 
seemed to chime in with the pale light of the 
moon, and the dim waters, and the dusky out- 
lines of the city behind them. Margaret and 
Philip listened in silence, for they were afraid 
she would stop if they praised her. 

“ I feel so happy,” she exclaimed, suddenly 
checking herself, as if she had forgotten she was 
not alone. 

“So am I,” said Philip, laughing, with such 
a boyish laugh as his mother had not heard for 
many mouths. 

“And so am I,” assented Margaret. “Oh! 
how good life is, even in this world 1 ” 

“But why are we so seldom happy?” asked 
Philip. 

“ Why are you happy now ? ” she rejoined. 

“I will tell jyou [why I am happy,” said 
Dorothy, leaning toward them, as they sat oppo- 
site to her, and they saw her dark eyes shining 
in the moonlight. “I am thinking of nothing 
but this one moment, and everything is very 
good. The moon up tliere, and the little clouds 
in the sky, and these waves rippling round us, 
and the happy air ; and you two whom I love 
and who love me. There is nothing here but 
what is good.” 


238 


HALF BBOTEERS. 


“ Why should we not oftener live in the pres- 
ent moment,” said Margaret, ‘‘instead of bur- 
dening it with the past and the future ? God 
would have us do so, as children do who have a 
father to care for them. He gives us to-day ; to- 
morrow he will give us another day, different, 
but as much his gift as this. If we would only 
take them as he sends them, one at a time, we 
should not be so seldom happy.” 

“I promise to try to do it,” cried Dorothy, 
stretching out her hands toward Margaret, but 
without touching her. “Philip, let us enter 
into an agreement to be happy. Let us take each 
day singly as it comes, and look upon it as a gift 
straight from God.” 

Philip did not speak, but Margaret said, as if 
to herself : 

‘ ‘ My God ! Thou art all love. 

Not one poor minute ’scapes Thy breast 
But brings a favor from above.” 

“I will try to believe it,” said Philip; “but 
there is so much in life that is not good. There 
are few days and hours like this.” 

They returned to the quay almost in silence, 
but not less happy because their hapxuness had 
taken a tinge of solemnity. As they landed, and 
the light of a lamp fell upon Margaret’s face, 
there was a look of serene gladness on it, such 
as neither Dorothy nor Philip had seen before. 
It looked to them like the face of an angel, both 
strong and happy. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A MYSTERY. 


They started by the earliest train to Victoria, 
and were half-way to Pieve di Cadore before 
nightfall, taking great delight, each one of 
them, in the wonderful beauty of the scenery 
through which they were traveling. Philip was 
in that delicious state of convalescence, the last 
stage of it, when health seems renewed to greater 
and fresher vigor than before the illness came. 
He was in high spirits, and in his inmost heart, 
if he had looked there, he would have discovered 
no regret that Phyllis was absent. Her presence, 
charming as it was, with the thousand little at- 
tentions she would have demanded from him, 
would have interfered with the perfect freedom 
he enjoyed in the companionship of his mother 
and Dorothy. They exacted nothing from him, 
and were good travelers, complaining of no dis- 
comfort or inconvenience. There was a good 
deal of discomfort which would have fretted 
Phyllis considerably. But Dorothy was like a 
pleasant comrade, whose society added another 
charm to the picturesque scenery. When Mar- 
garet was too tired to leave the carriage, Dorothy 
was always ready to climb the steep paths with 


240 


HALF BliOTHERS, 


him, by which they escaped the tedious zigzags 
of the dusty roads. 

To Dorothy, accustomed to a low horizon and 
wide sweep of upland with a broad field of sky 
above it, the lofty peaks of gray rock rising for 
thousands of feet into the sky, and hanging over 
the narrow valleys with a threatening aspect, 
were at first oppressive. But the profusion of 
flowers on the nearer slopes, which were in 
places blue with forget-me-nots and gentians, and 
yellow with large buttercups, Avas delightful 
to her, and she soon lost the sense of oppres- 
sion. 

It was the evening ]of the second day Avhen 
they reached Cortina, having crossed the Aus- 
trian frontier a few miles from it. They were 
the first tourists of the season, said the custom- 
house officer, and Avould be very welcome. The 
snow was not yet melted off the strangely shaped 
rocks, towering upward so precipitously that it 
could lodge only in the little niches and rough 
ledges of the surface, tracing Avith Avliite net- 
work ^the lines scored upon it by alternate frost 
and sunshine. The valley was more open than 
those through which they had traveled, and little 
groups of cottages AA^ere dotted about it, and for 
some distance up the loAver slopes of the moun- 
tains. The air Avas sharply cold and nipping, for 
the sun was gone doAvn behind the high ridge of 
rock, and they Avere glad to get inside the hotel, 
and into the small, bare dining room, AAdiich was 
the only room, except the kitchen, not used as a 


A MYSTERY. 


241 


beddiamber. They intended to stay here for 
some days, and Margaret, who had written from 
Venice to Sidney, informing him of their pro- 
posed journey, sent Philip; to telegraph to him 
that they had reached Cortina. 

It was a little town, and was quickly traversed. 
To Margaret’s telegram he added that they were 
all well and happy, smiling to himself as he 
thought how his father would shake his head at 
the needless extravagance of sending these two 
words. But Philip felt there was something 
special in his sender" of well-being which de- 
manded explicit acknowledgment. The young 
woman who copied his telegram looked at him 
with an air of curiosity and interest. 

‘‘ Tho signore is English ? ” she inquired. 

‘‘Yes, signora,” he replied. 

“ The first English of the year,” she continued, 
“and I must send word to the padre. He was 
here yesterday, and at all the hotels, to say he 
must speak with the first of the English who 
come to Cortina. Perhaps the signore has heard 
so already ?” 

“No,” answered Philip; “but I have not 
seen my landlord yet; he was out of the way 
when we arrived.” 

He had learned Italian sufliciently to carry on 
a simple conversation ; but he was not very 
fluent, and he was obliged to pause and think 
over his sentences. 

“We are going to stay here some days,” he 
resumed, “ or possibly some weeks. Is it neces- 


242 


HALF BROTHERS. 


sary for me to call upon tlie priest ? or will you 
tell him where I am staying ? ” 

‘‘I will call him ; it is urgent, I believe,’’ she 
said, hastening to the door, and running across 
a small, open space to a house near the church. 
In a few minutes she returned, accompanied by 
a young priest in a shabby cassock and worn- 
out broad-brimmed hat. 

“ I have the honor to speak to an English 
signore,” said the priest, bowing profoundly. 

“I shall be most happy to serve the padre,” 
answered Philip. 

The young priest bade the telegraph clerk a 
courteous good-night, and drew him a little on 
one side. A steep lane led down to the brawling 
river which ran through the valley, and they de- 
scended it until they were quite beyond any 
chance of being overheard. He then addressed 
Philip in a low voice, and in tolerably good 
English. 

“It is an affair of the confessional,” he said 
slowly, and with an evident effort of memory, as 
if he was repeating a statement he had carefully 
composed beforehand ; “ it is the case of an old 
woman, a very respectable old person. She dies 
at this moment, and she wills, before dying, to 
behold a true Englishman, and to betray to him 
one great secret, one important secret. I desired 
all the persons in the town to announce to me the 
arrival of the first Englishman touring to this 
place, and lo, it is the signore ! ” 

It was great luck, thought Philip, to come in 


A MT8TBRT. 


243 


SO immediately upon a mystery. No young man 
would shrink, as older men might do, from being- 
intrusted with a secret, which might involve them 
in much trouble and worry. 

‘‘ I am ready to go with you at once,” he said, 
smiling. 

“Not to-night,” answered the priest, “it is 
two hours up the mountain, and it is already 
night. She dies not to-night ; perhaps not to- 
morrow. In the morning, if the signore will 
condescend his favor.” 

“What time shall I be with you?” asked 
Philip. 

“At six o’clock; will that do?” replied the 
priest. “I take the — what you call the Sacra- 
ment — the Lord’s Supper, is it? to the respect- 
able old person, and I cannot have any food till 
she receives it from my hands. Will the hour of 
six be too early for the signore ? ’ ’ 

“No, no! ” he answered ; “but I shall break- 
fast before starting on a two hours’ walk up the 
mountain.” 

“That, of course,” said the priest, laughing 
low ; “you are not a padre. Moreover, the 
Protestants have the good things in this life, 
mark my words ! ” 

Margaret had already retired to her room when 
Philip returned to the hotel ; and when he 
knocked at her door to bid her good-night, she 
called to him to come in. It was an immense 
chamber, with a red brick floor, and several win- 
dows ; but a fire had been kindled in a large 


244 


HALF BEOTIIFMS. 


white-tiled stove in one corner of it, and a pleas- 
ant heat was diffused through the room. His 
mother was lying down on a red velvet sofa, 
which threw a tinge of rosy color upon her face, 
yet she looked to him somewhat pale and sad. 

‘‘I may be a little overtired,” she said, in an- 
swer to his anxious question, “and I am some- 
how depressed— oddly depressed. We have been 
so gay and happy these last few days, that I can 
hardly bear to feel myself going down to a lower 
level. I feel a great longing for your father to 
be with me. Philip, do you ever feel as if you 
had been in some place before, even if you knew 
for certain that you never can have been there?” 

“I have felt it once,” he replied. 

“I feel it here,” she continued, sighing; “I 
feel it very strongly. I feel, too, as if your 
father had been here ; of course that is possible, 
though he never mentioned it to me. It seems 
almost as if I could see him passing to and fro, 
and sitting here by my side, just as you are sit- 
ting. And I have another sensation — as if for 
years I had been traveling unconsciously toward 
one spot, and it is here, this valley, this room. 
You know I am not superstitious, but if I can- 
not shake off this feeling, we must go on some- 
where else. It is foolish of me, but I cannot stay 
here. I am positively afraid of going to bed, for 
I shall not sleep. Look at that great bed in the 
corner ; it frightens me. Yet I never am afraid.” 

“You are overdone, mother,” he said tenderly. 
“I have not taken care of you, but left myself to 


A MrST£!lir. 


245 


be taken care of. Let Dorothy come and sleei3 
with you ; you would not be afraid with her 
sweet, happy face beside you.’’ 

“It is sweet and happy,” answered Margaret, 
with a smile. “Yes, I will have a bed made up 
for her here, and if I lie awake in the night I can 
look across at her, sleeping as if she felt herself 
under the shadow of God’s wings.” 

“Ah, mother!” he cried, “if you only loved 
my Phyllis as you love Dorothy ! ” 

“I may do some day,” she replied. “When 
she is your wife and my daughter-in-law, she 
will be nearer to me even than Dorothy.” 

He put his arm round her and kissed her grate- 
fully, but in silence. He knew that she could 
never love Phyllis as she loved Dorothy. Phyl- 
lis, with her little petulancies, her pretty maneu- 
vers, her arch plottings to get her own way, her 
love of ornament and display, all her i)leasures 
and her purposes, was too unlike Margaret ever 
to become the daughter of her heart. But he 
must make up to Phyllis by a deeper devotion, a 
more single attention to her wishes, even when 
they were opposed to his own. Marrying her 
against the will and judgment of his father and 
mother, he must make it evident to her, as well 
as to them, that he never regretted acting on his 
own decision. 

“I am going up the mountains to-morrow 
morning,” he said before leaving her, “with a 
priest, to hear some great secret from an old 
woman who is dying. Some tale of robbery, I 


246 


HALF BROTBERS. 


expect. We start at six, and it is two hours’ up 
the mountain ; but I shall get back for twelve 
o’clock breakfast.” 

The clock in the bell tower struck twelve be- 
fore Margaret could resolve upon lying down in 
the great square bed in the corner, which stood 
almost as high as her own head. Dorothy had 
been fast asleep for some time on the little bed 
that had been moved into the room, and the girl’s 
sweet, tranquil slumber in some measure dispelled 
her own nervous fears. But the night was sleep- 
less to her. She heard, every quarter of an hour, 
the loud, single boom of the great bell, which 
reassured the inhabitants of the valley that their 
watchman was awake on his chilly tower, and 
looking out for any cause of alarm. Was it pos- 
sible that she had never listened to it before, so 
familiar the sound was ? Could this be the first 
night she had lain awake in this weary chamber, 
longing for Sidney’s presence, and watching with 
weary eyes the gray light of the morning stealing 
through the chinks of the shutters ? Had she 
never wept before as she did now, with tears 
slowly forcing themselves beneath her heavy eye- 
lids ? It was all a nervous illusion, she told her- 
self, proceeding from overstrain and fatigue ; but 
if it continued through the day, she must go on 
to some other place. There would be no chance 
of rest for her here. 

She lay as still almost as if she had been 
stretched out in death, her arms folded across 
her breast, and her eyelids closed. If she could 


A MTSTEBT. 


24*r 


not take rest in sleep, slie would commune with, 
her own heart upon her bed, and be still. ‘‘Thou, 
Lord, only makest me to dwell in safety,’’ she 
said. She reminded herself that nothing could 
befall her that God had not willed. Death she 
had never feared since the day when she had all 
but crossed the threshold of another life. The 
death of her beloved ones would be an unspeak- 
able sorrow to her, but not an unendurable one. 
What else, then, was there to dread ? 


CHAPTER XXXL 

MARTINO. 

The jagged crests of the eastern rocks were 
fringed with light from the sun still lingering 
behind them, when Philip stepped out into the 
frosty air of the morning, which made his veins 
tingle with a x>leasant glow. He enjoyed the 
prospect of this novel expedition, and felt glad 
that he was the first English tourist of the season. 
All the town was astir already, and the jjriest, 
with an acolyte, was awaiting him at the church 
door, where mass was just over, and the congre- 
gation, chiefly of women, was disj)ersing to their 
labors in the fields. Very soon the sun was 
shining down on the mountain track they were 
taking, and the whole valley lay below their eyes, 
lit up in its beams. The fields wore the vivid 
green of early spring, after the melting of the 
snows and before the scorching of the summer 
skies of brass. There were no song birds ; but 
once the harsh cry of a vulture startled Philip as 
it soared above them, uttering its scream of anger. 
On the fir trees the crimson flowers were harden- 
ing into cones, which would soon be empurpled 
and bronzed by the sun, where they hung in great 
clusters on the boughs just beyond his reach. 

248 


MARTINO. 


249 


He must bring Dorothy to see them, he thought. 
As they mounted higher they came here and 
there upon broad patches of gentian, so thickly 
grown that not a blade of green peeped among 
the deep blue of the blossom. Spring flowers 
were blooming in profusion, and their path lay 
once through a field of forget-me-nots, where the 
grass was hidden under a mantle of pale, heavenly 
blue. Certainly he would bring his mother and 
Dorothy to see such a pretty sight. 

Higher up the mountain ]3ath, which he could 
not have found without the i^riest as a guide, the 
road grew rougher and more stony, and presently 
they passed under the chill shadow of a long, 
high wall of rock. Here the snow lay unmelted 
in great masses, as if it had fallen in avalanches 
from the steep precipices above. But a path had 
been trodden over them, hard and slippery as 
frosty roads are on mountain passes where winter 
still reigns. Beyond these, in a valley lying high 
up on the mountain side, was a group of miser- 
able hovels. From every roof there rose a cloud 
of smoke, as if they were all smoldering from 
fire, and a volume of smoke issued from each 
open doorway. There was neither chimney nor 
window in any of the rude dwellings. 

“Will the signore arrest himself here till I 
turn again asked the priest courteously. 

Philip strolled on a little through a mass of 
broken rocks, split by the frost from the preci- 
pices, and interspersed with tiny plots of culti- 
vated ground, wherever a handful of soil could 


250 


HALF BROTHERS. 


be found. But in a few minutes he heard shouts 
and yells from what might be called the village 
street, and he turned back to see what was go- 
ing on. The priest, attended by his acolyte, had 
entered one of the huts ; and now, stealing away 
from it, Philip could see the gaunt and wretched 
figure of a man, at whom the children were hoot- 
ing loudly, though they kept at a safe distance 
from him. He came on toward Philip with a 
shambling gait, and with round, bowed shoul- 
ders, as if he had never stood upright. His 
shaggy hair was long and matted together, and 
his beard had been clumsily cut, not shaved, 
giving to him almost the aspect of a wild beast. 
His clothes were rags of the coarsest texture. 
Yet there was something — what could it be? 
not altogether strange and unfamiliar in his face 
as he drew near. There was a deep glance in his 
gray eyes, which lay sunken under heavy eye- 
brows, that seemed to speak some intelligible 
language to him, as if he knew the same expres- 
sion in a well known face. The peasant passed 
by, muttering, and stopping immediately behind 
him, as if using him as a screen, he picked up an 
enormous piece of rock and flung it at the yelp- 
ing children. 

“ Martino ! Martino ! ’’ they shrieked as they 
ran for refuge to their miserable dens ; and at the 
clamorous outcry a crew of dirty, half naked 
women, who looked barely human, rushed out 
into the street, as if to take vengeance on the 
irritated man ; but at the sight of Philip they 


MARTINO. 


251 


paused for an instant, and then fled back again, 
banging their doors behind them, as if fearful of 
an attack. 

At the sound of the cry “ Martino,” Philip for 
a moment fancied they were calling to him ; but 
quickly recalling to his mind where he was, he 
felt how impossible it was for any creature here 
to know his name. This poor fellow must bear 
it — an unlucky, pitiable namesake. He must be 
a dangerous madman, he thought ; yet when he 
looked round he saw the man crouching quietly 
under a rock at a little distance, his shaggy head 
buried in his hands. Philip’s whole heart was 
s; irred. He approached him cautiously, saying, 
“ Good -morning,” and the peasant lifted up his 
head and fixed his deep-set and mournful eyes 
upon him. 

“ Here is a lira for you,” said Philip, by way 
of opening up a friendly feeling between them. 
The man turned it about in his rough hands, 
with something like a smile on his rugged face. 
Then he crouched down at Philip’s feet, with his 
hands upon the ground — the attitude of a brute. 

“ The good signore ! ” he exclaimed. 

The two young men presented a striking con- 
trast. The one a handsome, thoroughbred, refined 
Englishman, whose culture had been pushed to 
the highest point, with all his powers of mind 
and body carefully trained, full of pity and, 
kindliness toward the almost savage and im- 
becile creature, all but prostrate at his feet, who 
had grown up an outcast and a thrall among 


252 


HALF BROTHERS. 


barbarians. Philip compelled him to rise from 
his knees. 

“ What is your name ? ” he asked, speaking 
slowly and clearly. 

“Martino,” he answered in a mumbling voice. 

“That is one of my names too,” said Philip, 
with a light laugh. He himself was struck with 
the utter contrast between them. The man was 
the same height as himself, only his head hung 
low, and his shoulders were rounded. Coarse 
and brutish as this Austrian peasant was, he felt 
a peculiar kindness toward him, and looked at 
him with the eye of a future patron and benefac- 
tor. If he had only been cared for sooner, these 
large limbs might have made a fine man, and his 
head was not a bad shape. Now he saAv him 
near at hand there were possibilities about him 
which would have made him quite another crea- 
ture if he had been taken in hand a few years 
earlier. It was too late now. 

They stood opposite to one another with 
friendliness in both faces, but with the accursed 
barrier of different languages making it impos- 
sible to communicate their kindly feelings. The 
peasant kept looking at the coin in his grimy 
palm, and back again at Philip’s compassionate 
face, but he did not try to speak. Philip was 
about to make another effort, when the priest 
approached and addressed a few sharp words to 
Martino, who immediately shambled off, drag- 
ging his bare and horny feet along over the 
stones and ice, in the direction of Cortina. 


MARTINO. 


253 


“The respectable old person is now ready 
to receive the signore,” said the priest to 
Philip. 

He conducted him into the dark interior of one 
of the hovels, into which no ray of light entered, 
excei^t through the nick between the doorpost 
and the door, which he left purposely ajar. 
Coming out of the strong, clear light of the 
mountain side, for a minute or two Philip could 
discern nothing ; but by and by, in the darkness, 
there appeared slowly and dimly a haggard, yel- 
low face, wrinkled in a thousand lines, with cun- 
ning eyes grown bleared and red, which wandered 
restlessly between him and the priest. All else 
was dark and indistinguishable. The black roof 
lay low, almost touching his head, and the black 
walls hemmed him in closely. On the hearth a 
fire of [dry dung was smoldering, but gave no 
light ; and the noisome smoke rose in wreaths 
and columns which found a j)artial escape 
through the roof and doorway. Philip took 
silent note of it all, with the calm interest of an 
accidental bystander. 

“This person wishes to disclose a strange cir- 
cumstance to the English signore,” said the 
priest with grave deliberation ; “he understands 
the Italian a little, I think so.” 

“ Only a little,” answered Philip ; “ but if you 
will repeat to me slowly what she says, I shall 
make out most of the meaning. And you can 
help me, for you know more English than I do 
Italian,” 


254 


HALF BROTHERS. 


The priest bowed with a smile. There was, in- 
deed, great difficulty to make out the whole 
story, as Chiara told it in patois ; but her man- 
ner was intensely earnest, and Philip bent all his 
mind to catch the meaning of her confession. It 
seemed an obscure and painful story of some 
young English girl, who had been deserted by 
her lover at Cortina, when she was about to be- 
come a mother, and who gave birth to the poor un- 
fortunate creature whom he had just seen. This 
man was half an Englishman, the son of an Eng- 
lish mother. This, then, was the secret of his 
strange feeling of being almost akin to him. 

“ Why did she not try to send him as a child 
to England?” he asked, feeling a great rush of 
compassion toward the man who had been thus 
deprived of his birthright. 

There was some hesitation about the reply. 
Chiara had confessed her theft to the priest, but 
she had also left the stolen money to the church 
for masses to be said for her soul. She had de- 
rived no benefit from it during her lifetime, hav- 
ing grown to love it with all a miser’s infatua- 
tion, and she was not willing to sacrifice the good 
it might do her in the life to which she was 
hastening. She could not run the risk of having 
to give up her idolized plunder. The priest, 
also, was unwilling for the church to lose any 
portion of its revenues. 

‘‘Chiara took charge of the child,” he said, 
“ and sent it up here to be nursed by her sister. 
When her sister died ten years ago she came to 


MARTINO. 


255 


live in this place herself, and Martino worked for 
her. It was fair for Martino to work for her, 
when she paid for all he had.’’ 

“ Yes,” answered Philip ; “ but did this woman 
take no measures to find the father who deserted 
his child so basely? ” 

‘‘Not possible,” exclaimed the priest ; “ there 
were few English tourists passing this way thirty 
years ago. And Chiara began to love] the boy, 
and could not part with him.” 

“But why does she tell the story now — now, 
when it is too late ? ” asked Philip with a tone of 
passion in his voice. 

“ She would not tell now,” said the priest, 
“ but she dies, as you behold. She is poor, and 
there will be nothing for Martino. When she is 
gone the other people here will stone him, or kill 
him in some way. For his mother was a heretic, 
and they believe she is in hell, and Martino is 
not a good Christian, though he was permitted 
to be baptized. He is very savage, like a wild 
beast, and the women are frightened of him. 
The men will kill him like a wild beast.” 

“ She wants to find a friend and protector for 
him,” responded Philip pitifully. “ Well, I will 
take care of the poor fellow. Did the poor girl 
leave nothing behind her which might give me 
some clew as to who she belonged to ? Martino 
may have some relations in England.” 

‘ ‘ There is this little packet of papers in Eng- 
lish,” said the priest ; “ I have not read them yet, 
for this person did not give them to me only a 


256 


HALF BROTHERS. 


moment ago. 'No person has ever read them, for 
she kept them safe and secret all these years. 
She wishes the English signore to read them, and 
say what can be done for Martino.” 

“I cannot read them here,” replied Philip, 
taking the yellow, time-stained packet from his 
hand ; ‘‘but if you will come to my hotel this 
evening I will tell you the contents.” 

“Very good,” said the priest. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

AN OLD LETTER. 


Philip left the stifling atmosphere of the hovel, 
and, with a deep-drawn breath of relief, stepped 
into the open air. The wonderful landscape 
stretched before him in clear sunlight, dazzling 
to his eyes. He was nearly two thousand feet 
above the valley, and the mountains, which were 
foreshortened to the sight there, now seemed 
to tower into the cloudless sky with indescribable 
grandeur and beauty. It was a perfect day, and 
the light was intense. The colors of these rocks 
were exceedingly soft, with a bloom upon them 
like the bloom upon a peach. Tender shades of 
purple and red, with blue and orange, pale yellow 
and green, blended together, and formed such 
delicate tints as would drive an artist to despair. 
Tall pinnacles of these cliffs rose behind the dun- 
colored mountains of porphyry, and seemed to look 
down upon him, as if their turrets and parapets 
were filled with spectators of the trivial affairs of 
man. Thin clouds were floating about them, 
hanging in mist upon their peaks or slowly glid- 
ing across from one snow- veined crest to another. 
Immediately above him, just beyond the hamlet, 
lay a vast hollow, in which the snowdrift was 
melting in the heat of the sun, which had at last 


258 


HALF BROTHERS. 


risen behind its rough screen of crags ; and a 
stream of icy-cold water was falling noisily down 
a steep and stony channel, which it had worn out 
for itself through many centuries of spring thaws. 
The heat was very great ; and Philip made his 
way to some little distance from the huts, and sat 
down on the ledge of a rock, which commanded 
a splendid view of the groups of mountains, and 
the valleys lying between them. He was not, as 
yet, so interested in tlie packet in his hand as to 
be indifferent to the romantic scenery surrounding 
him. These letters had been written thirty years 
ago ; they could well wait a few minutes longer. 

Yet he was indignant ; and he was full of com- 
j)assion toward his unfortunate fellow-country- 
man. But at that moment he was enjoying the 
sensation of an almost perfectly full life. He felt 
himself in faultless health ; his mind was on the 
stretch, with a sense of vigor and power which 
was delightful to him after the low spirits of the 
last few months ; and beneath this strong sensa- 
tion of mental and physical life lay a clearer, 
keener, diviner conviction of the jpresence of God 
than he had ever known before. It seemed to 
him as if he could all but hear a voice calling to 
him, “This is holy ground!” In spite of the 
miserable homes of men and women close by, and 
in spite of the degraded man whose life had been 
one long wretchedness in this place, Philip felt 
that it was a temple of God himself. 

With this strength, and in the consciousness of 
unusual energy, he turned away at last from the 


AN OLD LETTER. 


259 


sublime landscape, to read tlie faded paper in liis 
hands. It bore no name or address ; and it was 
not sealed, only tied together with a ribbon. A 
very, very long letter of several pages, written in 
almost undecipherable lines, for the ink was 
faded, and the paper stained. But there was 
another packet, and opening it he found a da- 
guerreotype glass. There were two portraits on 
it, one of a girl with a very pretty face, and the 
other — but whose could this portrait be ? 

Philip’s healthy pulse ceased to beat for a mo- 
ment. Who could it be ? How [perfectly he 
seemed to know it ! There had been an old da- 
guerreotype lying about in the nursery at Apley, 
which he had seen and played with as soon as he 
was old enough to recognize it in its morocco case. 
Was it possible that this portrait was the same 
as that ? 

He shut the case softly, feeling as if dead hands 
were closing it. A terrible foreboding of some 
dire calamity came all at once into the sunshine, 
and the sweet air, and the sound of hurrying 
waters. He unfolded the time-stained letter, and 
began to read ; and as he read, the dreadful truth, 
the whole truth, as he thought, broke upon him, 
and overwhelmed him with dismay and horror. 

One of his earliest remembrances was the story 
of the lost girl, Kachel Goldsmith’s niece, who 
had gone away secretly from home and had never 
again been heard of. As a boy he had often 
thought of how he would go forth to find her, and 
bring her home again to his oldest friend, Andrew 


^60 


HALF BROTHERS. 


Goldsmith. It had been his boyish vision of 
knight-errantry. As a young man he had learned 
what such a loss meant ; not the simple loss he 
had fancied it as a boy. It had become in later 
years a subject he could no longer mention to her 
father, or his own mother. Philii3’s ideal of a 
man’s duty toward a woman was of the purest 
and most chivalrous devotion. 

And now ! Philip could not face the horror of 
the thought that was waiting to take possession 
of his mind. He roused himself angrily, and 
stood up, crushing the letter and the portraits 
into his pocket. A path went beyond the hamlet, 
leading upward toward the crest of a pass lying 
between two ranges of mountains. He strode 
hastily along it, as if he were i)ursued by an 
enemy, passing through pine woods, and over 
torrents of stones, which many a storm had swept 
down from tlie precipices above him. Some mas- 
sive thunderclouds had gathered in the north, 
and the snowy peaks gleamed out pale and ghost- 
like against the leaden sky. But his eyes were 
blinded, and his ears deafened. Yet he was not 
thinking ; he dared not tliink. A miserable 
dread was dogging his footsteps along an un- 
known path ; and presently he must summon 
courage to turn round and confront this dread. 

He reached at last the top of the pass, where 
three crosses stood out strongly and clearly 
against the sky. Three crosses ! Not only that 
on which the Lord died, but those on which every 
man must hang, weary and ashamed, at some mo- 


AN OLD LETTER. 


261 


ment of his life. He sat down beneath the central 
one, and leaned against the foot of it. It was his 
Lord’s cross ; but on each side stood the cross of 
a fellow-man — the man of sorrows, and the man 
of sins. He, too, was come to the hour when he 
must be lifted up upon his cross. He must be 
crucified upon it, perliaps in the sight of men, 
certainly in the sight of God. He had come to 
it straight from the conviction of the presence of 
God ; and looking up to the three empty crosses, 
he cried out, “ Lord, remember me.” 

Then, with hands that shook, and with dazed 
eyes, he [read the long letter, which Sophy had 
written years before he was born. And as he 
read he found the burden less intolerable than 
he had dreaded it would be. His father had not 
been as base as his first miserable suspicion had 
vaguely pictured him. Sophy Goldsmith had 
been his wife ; and Philip, counting how many 
years were passed, saw his father a young man 
like himself, loving her as he loved Phyllis, but 
with far less hope of ever gaining the consent of 
his friends to such a marriage. He, too, would 
have married Phyllis, in spite of all opposition ; 
only not in secret. 

His brain grew clearer with this gleam of com- 
fort. Then the thought came that the miserable, 
half savage peasant whom he had seen that morn- 
ing,‘being Sophy’s child, must be his father’s first- 
born son, and his own brother. It was his father’s 
eyes he had seen, and partly recognized, when 
he first looked into Martin’s face. His brother 


262 


HALF BROTHERS. 


Martin ! He tlionglit of his brother Hugh, be- 
tween whom and himself there existed the strong- 
est and most loyal brotherhood. Hugh had stood 
by him through all his difficulties about Phyllis, 
and approved of his choice of her with the warm- 
est approbation. But this barbarous, degraded, 
forlorn wretch, an outcast among the lowest 
people — how could he feel a brother’s love for 
him ? 

If the eldest son — then the heir ! The estates 
in Yorkshire were strictly entailed upon Sir John 
Martin’s male heirs, as his mother’s lands were 
settled upon Hugh. This man, scarcely higher 
than a brute, must take from him the inheritance 
which had seemed to be his all his life. Why ! 
he, Philip Martin, would be a poor man, a man 
who must work for his living. This was a new 
aspect of the case, and one which aroused him 
from the deeper depths of his dismay. This 
discovery suddenly and completely changed his 
whole life. 

It was not he who would some day be Philip 
Martin of Brackenburn — nothing would be his. 
Now he could marry Phyllis without opposition, 
for he would be as i)oor as she was. He was not 
afraid of poverty ; he had no practical acquaint- 
ance with it, and Margaret had trained her sons 
into a fine contempt of mere wealth. There 
would be a worthy object in setting to work now, 
for he would have a wife and family to maintain. 
That was far better than simply making more 
money to invest or to speculate with. 


AN OLD LETTER. 


263 


But what ought he to do ? This was a secret 
of momentous importance concealed by his father 
for nearly thirty years. It had come suddenly 
to his knowledge ; and what must he do with it ? 
And now, ’his heart having shaken off the worst 
of its burden, his mind was clear enough to 
recognize the hideous and insane selfishness of 
his father’s conduct. Before he knew who it was 
that had deserted this young girl and her unborn 
child, he had felt a strong indignation at his 
baseness and cowardice. What could have made 
his father, who seemed the soul of honor, act in 
such a manner ? He had been guilty of a great 
crime, and the man sent to discover it was his 
own son. 

Lifting up his eyes from the ground, on which 
they had been gloomily bent, Philip saw the un- 
couth figure of his elder brother crouching and 
half hidden under one of the thieves’ crosses. 
His bare feet had brought him noiselessly along 
the road ; and he shrank a little from his ob- 
servation, as if he was afraid of some sharj) re- 
buff. The deep-set eyes glowered at him much 
as a dog’s will do when he is not sure of what 
reception he will get. There was something wild 
and desolate about this solitary figure which 
touched Philip’s inmost heart; and yet he could 
give him no welcome to a place there. 

Must he tell his mother ? It would be like 
piercing her to the soul with a sword. He knew 
well what keen and tender sympathy she had 
felt for the Goldsmiths, both when Sophy firsjf 


264 


HALF BROTHERS. 


disappeared and during all tlie succeeding years 
of alternating hope and desjjair. It was this 
sympathy that had won Rachel Goldsmith’s pro- 
found devotion to her beloved mistress. How his 
mother must suffer when she learned that the hus- 
band she loved and honored so perfectly had been 
living a base and cruel lie at her side, witnessing 
all the sorrow of the family he had wronged, and 
pretending to share in it. He could imagine her 
bearing his father’s death, but he could not 
imagine her bearing his dishonor. His mother 
must suffer more than he did. 

Philip roused himself at last to go down into 
the valley ; the afternoon was passing by, and 
his mother would be getting anxious at his ab- 
sence. He said Addio^^ to his silent compan- 
ion; but he was conscious, without looking back, 
that Martino was following him. He felt glad 
when he reached Cortina, on glancing round, to 
see that he was at last alone. Dorothy was 
standing on the balcony outside his mother’s 
bedroom, and she leaned over, with a laughing 
face, to reproach him’for being away so long. 

‘‘The very first day, too ! ” she said. “And 
oh ! if you only knew how vexed I am ! There 
is a telegram from your father, very pleasant for 
you, but most disagreeable to me.” 

He ran upstairs at hearing this news, no longer 
afraid of meeting his mother, and she gave to 
him the telegram. 

“Going to Munich on business,” it ran ; “ pro- 
ceed immediately — meet there. Taking Phyllis. ’ ’ 


AN OLD LETTER. 


265 


“ But there is a great festa in the village to- 
morrow,” said Dorothy, “ and as it is too late to 
proceed immediately, we are going to stay for the 
morning and go on to Toblach in the afternoon. 
We shall reach Munich before your father and 
Phyllis can be there. And oh, Philip ! the bells 
are ringing carillons as if they were chimes in 
heaven.” 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 


A VILLAGE “FESTA.” 

Philip went down to the presbytery and had 
a short interview with the padre. Chiara was 
dying at last ; the sacraments had been adminis- 
tered to her, and her life could not linger on 
through many hours. What did the English 
signore propose to do for his penniless country- 
man ? 

Philip answered briefly that he would take 
steps to restore him to his family. He then went 
to the telegraph office and dispatched another 
message to his father. “Received yours. Ur- 
gent reasons for your presence here.’’ 

He would accompany his mother to-morrow to 
Toblach ; but he could not quit the neighborhood 
until something could be decided about his 
brother. His brother ! He stood still abruptly 
in the village street, with a half laugh of stupe- 
fied amazement. His brother ! It must be some 
egregious blunder of his own imagination ; his 
brain had been weakened by the fever. He 
turned away into a by-road and cautiously took 
out the letter and the morocco case. No, that 
was his father’s portrait ; he recognized it too 
well. The eyes looking out of the faded daguerre- 


A VILLAGE ^'FESTA: 


267 


otype resembled the sad, frank, frightened eyes 
of the oppressed and persecuted outcast. 

He did not venture indoors again until dinner 
time, and immediately after dinner he com- 
plained of fatigue. Margaret went to his room 
before going to bed herself, entering very softly 
through the door between their two chambers lest 
he should be sleeping. He knew she stood for a 
minute or two beside him, shading the lamp with 
her hand ; but he dared not move or speak. She 
bent over him and laid her lips on his hair that 
she might run no risk of awakening him. He 
had never loved her so much as at this moment, 
and he longed to throw his arms round her neck 
and tell her what was troubling him, as he had 
done when he was a boy not so very long ago. 
But he could not tell her this sorrow ; would it 
not crush her to death ? Would to God he could 
die if his death would save her ! 

The morning was wonderfully bright and 
sunny, and through the transparent thinness of 
the air the most distant peaks shone clearly, with 
their soft colors and delicate tracery of snow. 
The festa began early with the ringing of bells , 
and the firing of musketry. Long files of peas- 
antry came down in troops along the narrow 
tracks leading from the valley to the mountains. 
Margaret and Dorothy hurried over their coffee 
and rolls to hasten down to the church. But it 
was already full, and hundreds of women and 
children were kneeling outside the western door, 
and a similar crowd of men outside the northern 


268 


HALF BROTHERS. 


door. Some women sitting on a bench offered a 
seat to Margaret, whose beautiful face was lit up 
with an expression of sympathy with their devo- 
tion. The women, like the men, were praying 
with their hats in their hands, bareheaded under 
a burning sun. Margaret shared a prayer book 
with the peasant woman beside her, and read the 
prayers and meditations in Italian ; while here 
and there the woman marked with her thumb 
some special words, and looked up into her face 
to see if she was “ sympatica ”/ and she and her 
companions smiled as they saw Margaret’s lips 
move with the uttering of the same prayers they 
were themselves repeating. 

Presently, amid the ringing of the bells and 
to the music of a brass band, a procession was 
formed, and all the congregation thronged out of 
the church, and those who had been praying 
without fell into their places — men, and women, 
and children. There were altars erected in the 
streets, at which mass was to be celebrated ; and 
the long procession tiled away with many banners 
fluttering along it. Last of all, and at a little 
distance from the rest, there came a man whom 
Margaret had already noticed as standing aloof, 
half hidden behind a corner of a wall. He was 
an uncouth creature, tall and ungainly, with un- 
cut, matted hair, and a coarse beard ; yet there 
was something in his whole appearance that re- 
minded her of somebody she knew. 

Why ! ” exclaimed Dorothy in accents of 


A VILLAGE ‘^FESTA. 


269 ‘ 


surprise. “Look! look! How like that poor 
fellow is to Andrew Goldsmith ! ” 

Yes, that was it. This awkward Tyrolean 
peasant, who hardly knew how to use his great 
limbs, was like Andrew — oddly like him ; he 
might have been Andrew’s own son. She smiled 
at the oddity of such a resemblance ; but apart 
from this, the man’s solitariness and aloofness 
interested her greatly. She turned to the old 
woman beside her, who was sitting still, waiting 
for the procession to accomplish part of its route 
before she joined it. 

“ Who is that poor man ?” she inquired. 

“He is English,” replied the woman, “an 
Englishman who was born here in the very hotel 
itself where the signora is staying. Will she 
wish to hear all the circumstances ? Because I 
know ; I was a servant there when Martino was 
born.” 

“ Is his name Martino ? ’’ asked Margaret. 

“Yes, signora,” she went on eagerly ; “I will 
tell the English lady. It is nearly thirty years 
ago, a little later than this festa. An Englfsh 
signore and signora came to the hotel, and the 
name written in the register by the signore was 
Martino. So when the child was born he was 
named Martin ; and Saint Martin is his patron, 
but the saint has done nothing for him, because 
his parents were heretics, and not Christians.” 

“Martin!” repeated Margaret, with growing 
interest ; “but what became of the parents ? ” 


270 


HALF BROTHERS. 


“The little mother died, poor soul, in giving 
him birth,” said the old woman, “ and lies buried 
yonder in the cemetery, and Chiara took the 
boy for her own. Chiara was the head servant in 
the hotel, and folks say she made money by it in 
some way ; but there was not much money in the 
sigTi ora’s trunks — only enough to buiy her ; or 
if there was money, it never did Chiara any good, 
poor soul ! They say she lies dying this morning 
up yonder in a hut on the hills, and all she will 
hear of the festa is the ringing of the bells and 
the firing of the cannon. She’s no older than I 
am ; and you behold me ! ” 

“But the father of Martino,” said Margaret, 
“ what became of him ? ” 

“ An old story,” she answered ; “he had for- 
saken her three or four weeks before the boy was 
born. He was a fine, handsome signore, and she 
worshiped him. But what then? Young si- 
gnori cannot trouble themselves about girls. Why 
should they ? Girls are too plentiful. He went 
off one fine day, and nobody ever saw him again.” 

But did no one try to find him on account of 
his child ? ” asked Margaret. 

“Once,” said the woman, “about six years 
after, a strange Englishman came here in the 
winter, and made inquiries, and saw the boy. 
But he went away again, and no more was heard 
of him. Chiara brought the boy up to be her 
servant. Her servant ? Her slave ! His life was 
worse than a dog’s. We are poor here, signora, 
but Martino is the poorest creature of us all. He 


A VILLAGE ^‘FESTAJ 


271 


never had as much as he could eat ; not once in 
his life. Old Chiara is a skinflint.’’ 

The procession was out of sight, but the 
monotonous chant droned by thousands of voices 
came plainly to their ears. Margaret listened to 
the strange sound, with eyes dim with tears for 
the poor fellow, whose life was so desolate and 
hard. 

“Will the lady wish to seethe grave of the 
pretty English girl ?” asked the woman, with an 
eye to a possible gratuity. “ It is not far off in the 
cemetery, and we shall be there before the pro- 
cession passes.” 

“ I will go,” said Margaret in a pitying voice. 
“Dorothy, stay and bring Philip to me.” 

The murmur of the chanted prayers filled the 
quiet air as they passed down a side lane toward 
the cemetery, broken only by the clashing of the 
bells and the firing of cannon at the moment 
when the Host was elevated. This triumphal 
burst of noisy sound came as they passed through 
the gates of the neglected burial ground, and 
Margaret’ s guide fell down on her knees and 
waited until the chant was renewed. Then she 
led the way to the corner, ai)art from the other 
graves, and somewhat more overgrown with 
weeds and nettles, where Sophy lay buried. 

There was a rude cross at the head of the 
grave, made of two bits of wood nailed clumsily 
together ; and round it lay an outline of white 
pebbles. To-day, a handful of blue gentians lay 
upon it. There was a pathetic sadness about 


272 


HALF BROTHERS. 


these awkward efforts to care for the grave, as if 
some bungler had done his best to express his 
grief, and had scarcely known what to do. The 
tears fell fast from Margaret’s eyes as she laid 
her hand reverently on the rough wood of the 
cross. 

“ Has that poor fellow done this ? ” she asked. 

‘‘Yes, signora,” was the 'answer, “it’s his 
mother’s grave. The pretty English girl is 
buried here. I can recollect her well, with blue 
eyes and gold hair, and a skin like roses and 
lilies. He called her Sophy.” 

Margaret started. A sudden pang shot 
through her heart. After all these years was she 
to discover the fate of the poor girl, whose loss 
she had mourned so long, in this remote spot? 
Could this be Sophy Goldsmith’s grave ? And 
oh ! how sorrowful beyond all their fears must 
her sad lot have been ! Hying, alone, deserted ; 
leaving behind her a child who had grown into 
this miserable pariah of the mountains. Swiftly 
the thought of Andrew Goldsmith, and his 
dark, deep grief when he learnt all, passed 
through her mind. 

The refrain of the chant came nearer, and the 
long x)i"ocession had reached the doors of the 
church close to the cemetery. Suddenly the peas- 
ant woman broke the silence with which she had 
respected Margaret’s tears. 

“ Will the signora pardon me if I leave her ? ” 
she asked. “They are going into church now. 
Jly God ! ” she cried in a tone of terror, “here 


A VILLAGE ^‘EESTA. 


273 


is the young English signore himself ! the 
signore who forsook the poor English girl. Oh, 
my God ! ” 

Margaret turned round, with a sickening sen- 
sation of terror, such as she had never felt be- 
fore, as if she would be compelled to see some 
dreaded vision. Coming slowly toAvard them 
down the weedy path of the cemetery was 
Philip, with Dorothy at his side. Both looked 
grave, as if they felt the desolation of the neg- 
lected spot ; but there was an air of moody pre- 
occupation about Philix3, as though his thoughts 
were dealing Avith some subject a thousandfold 
more sad than the uncared-for dead. 

‘‘No, no,” continued the woman, “it cannot 
be ! The signore Avould be an old man now; it is 
thirty years ago. But just so he looked, and 
just so he Avalked. Did the signora knoAv the 
poor girl Avho is buried here called Sophy, Mar- 
tino’s mother ? ” 

“Hush ! hush ! ” cried Margaret, in an agony 
of apprehension ; “ say nothing more now. This 
is my son. Go aAA^ay to church, and I will see 
you again some time soon.” 

A moment afterAvard Pliilip was standing op- 
posite to her, looking down on the rudely out- 
lined grave and the rough cross. Neither of 
them spoke. He did not ask Avhose grave it was ; 
and her parched lips could have given him no 
answer. 

“It looks like a God-forsaken spot,” said 
Dorothy, pityingly. “Oh, how can people leave 


274 


HALF BMOTHERS. 


their dear ones in such a desolate graveyard ? I 
always fancy ‘the field to bury strangers in,’ 
which was bought with the money Judas flung 
away, must have been such a place as this.” 

But neither Margaret nor Philip answered her, 
and she looked up in surprise. Margaret’s face 
was like that of one stunned and almost para- 
lyzed by a sudden shock ; her eyes were fixed, 
and her lips half open, as if she was gazing on 
some sight of horror. It was but for a brief half 
minute ; then she sighed heavily, and tears fell 
fast and thick down her pale cheeks. 

“O Philip!” cried his mother, “let us go 
away quickly from this rplace. Let us start at 
once. I am not myself here. Take me away as 
quickly as we can go.” 

“Yes, mother,” he answered, drawing her 
hand tenderly through his arm. He did not 
dare to ask her any question. He guessed whose 
grave this was by which she was standing, and 
felt sure that she knew something of the dread 
secret that oppressed himself. But it was im- 
possible for him to ask her. She stood nearer to 
his father even than he did. The close, insepar- 
able, sacred nature of the tie that unites man and 
wife struck him as it had never done before. 
Any sin of her husband would be an intolerable 
burden to her. 

He hurried their departure from the hotel, 
though it was difficult to get a carriage on a 
festa day like this. But at length they started, 
and he felt that every step taking them away 


A VILLAGE ^^FESTA: 


275 


from Cortina was a gain. They passed little 
groups of peasants going homeward ; and the 
sound of church bells ringing joyous peals pur- 
sued them for several miles. But they left the 
valley behind them after a time. The drive they 
were hurrying over was one of the most beautiful 
in Europe, but only Dorothy saw it that day. 
Once, when she saw a red peak, with clouds roll- 
ing across it, and the spots of crimson gleaming 
like flames beneath the vapor, and a pale gray 
rock close by looking ghostlike beside it, she 
turned to Margaret with a low exclamation of de- 
light. But Margaret’s eyes were closed, and her 
ears were deaf. A vague, undefined terror in 
her soul had almost absolute rule over her. She 
must have been blind and deaf to the glories of 
heaven itself, with that fear of an almost im- 
possible crime in her husband which was haunt- 
ing her. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A FORCED CONFESSION. 

In fleeing as swiftly as she could from Cortina, 
Margaret had no intention of deserting Sophy’s 
son. But it seemed essential to her to get away 
from the spot for a little while, that her brain 
might be clear enough for thought. They 
stopped, then, at Toblach, at the entrance of the 
Ampezzo Valley, and only half a day’s journey 
from Cortina. It was a relief to her to hear that 
Philip had already telegraphed for his father, 
and as he must pass through Toblach they waited 
for him there. 

The tumult in Margaret’s mind calmed a little, 
but still she shrank from gathering up the 
threads of what she had heard at Cortina and 
weaving them together. Sophy Goldsmith lay 
buried there, and her son w^as living and bore the 
name of Martin. Philii) had been recognized as 
being like the man who had deserted her and left 
her to die. Her mind constantly recurred to 
these points. She reproached herself vehemently 
for suffering any doubt of Sidney to invade her 
love for him. Her love was so deep and vital 
that it seemed impossible for doubt to undermine 
it. If any human being could know another, 
she felt that she must know her husband’s 


S70 


A mRCED CONFESSION. 2VV 

nature ; and treacliery and vice were abhorrent 
to it. She did not call him faultless, but she 
had seen none besides the little flaws and errors 
which must always hang about frail humanity — 
such as she was herself guilty of. “Who can 
understand his errors ? Cleanse thou me from 
secret faults,” was a prayer often in Margaret’s 
heart ; and slie had never been prone to mark 
little sins, such as men and women outgrow, if 
their path be upward. Sidney’s whole life lay 
before her in the clear and searching light of 
their mutual love and close companionship ; and 
looking at it thus she refused to believe any evil 
of him, and tried to shut her eyes to the black 
cloud dimming her horizon. 

But there could not but be times when doubt 
and suspicion stole like traitors into her heart. 
There was no doubt in her clear brain that it was 
Sophy Goldsmith who was lying in that forsaken 
grave, and that the wretched pariah she had seen 
was Andrew Goldsmith’s grandson. That was 
terrible enough ; a most mournful discovery to 
come upon after so many years of faint hope, 
and of constant grief. But if the man who 
wrought all this misery, and was guilty of this 
base treachery, should prove to be Sidney! It 
was incredible ; it was madness to believe it. 

All this time Margaret did not cease to trust in 
the love of God, and in his love toward all 
men. Though fierce tempests troubled the very 
depths of her soul, below them was a deeper 
depth, not of her own soul, but of that Eternal 


2V8 


BALF BROTHBnS. 


Spirit in whom she lived, and moved, and had 
her being. She was conscious of resting in this 
love. But a child resting in its mother’s arms, 
and on her breast, may suffer agonies of pain. 
So Margaret suffered. 

Sidney was in London when Philip dispatched 
his first message from Cortina. It was evening 
when he sent it, and the first thing the next 
morning it reached his father’s hands. Margaret 
had written from Venice as soon as their de- 
parture had been decided upon ; but Sidney had 
not as yet received the letter. Philip’s telegram, 
therefore, came upon him like a thunderbolt fall- 
ing out of a clear blue sky. He had felt no fore- 
warning of this danger. Their route on their 
return from Venice had been settled before he 
left them, and so accustomed was he to arrange 
and direct the movements of all about him, that 
no apprehension of any change of plan had 
crossed his mind. It was only of late that the 
conviction that his son was a man, and one who 
would assert and enjoy the freedom of manhood, 
had been thrust upon him. It was evident that 
Philip had felt himself man enough to change 
his route homeward as it pleased him. 

They were in Cortina ; but if they were merely 
passing through there was but little risk of them 
learning Sophy’s fate. He must get them away 
from the dangerous place immediately. For a 
few minutes he was at a loss how to do this. 
Then the plan of setting off himself for Munich 
on business occurred to him; and to ensure 


A iroRCED CONFESSION, 


279 


Philip’s prompt compliance he resolved to take 
Phyllis with him. He sent a messenger to bring 
her hurriedly to London, and they started at 
night, Phyllis in a whirl of delight and triumph 
at Sidney’s surrender to her. They were well on 
their way to Munich before Philij)’s second tele- 
gram reached London. 

But when they arrived at Munich, instead of 
his wife and son awaiting him at his hotel, he 
found Philip’s message repeated in a telegram 
from his confidential clerk. Then his heart sank 
and was troubled. This summons to Cortina 
indicated too plainly that his sin had found him 
out. His sin ! From one point of view — the 
lenient judgment of a man of the world — it did 
not seem a very grievous one. It was nothing 
worse than the too close concealment of a boyish 
blunder. His fii'st wife had been dead years 
before he married Margaret ; and he had con- 
fessed this secret marriage to her father. W ith 
most women there would be tears and reproaches, 
followed by forgiveness. But Margaret would 
have a point of view of her own. What would 
she feel about the ugly fact when she learned 
that Sophy had died alone and deserted ? Still 
more, what would she feel about the prolonged 
concealment as it affected Andrew Goldsmith 
and her favorite maid, Bachel? But for these 
things he might have reckoned upon her full 
pardon. 

Phyllis was traveling with him, and demanded 
a good deal of his attention. She was a little 


S80 


HALF BROTHEm. 


exacting as a companion, and could not sit in 
silence for an hour together. Her spirits were 
high, for she felt that now indeed Sidney’s objec- 
tions to her marriage with Philip were overcome, 
and that he must consent to an early date for it. 
When she kept silence for half an hour she was 
settling weighty questions about her trousseau^ 
and wondering if Sidney could not be managed 
in such a way as to be persuaded to give her a 
handsome sum toward the purchase of it. She 
knew her father could not spare her a tenth of 
the money she would wish for. How delicious it 
was to be rich ! Sidney never gave a second 
thought to any of the expenses of their luxurious 
mode of traveling ; and before long this would 
be her own experience. ‘‘ Sovereigns will be like 
shillings to me,” she said to herself, and the 
thought made her very happy. Every whim of 
her heart would be gratified when she was 
Philip’s wife. 

In the meanwhile Philip was suffering less than 
his mother, but with more certain knowledge of 
facts. There was no conflict in his mind between 
love and suspicion. His love for his father, 
whom until lately he had loved passionately, 
seemed to be scorched up in tlie fierce fire of his 
indignation. He had been guilty of the meanest 
perfidy, and all his after life had been one of 
shameful hypocrisy. As Philip wandered soli- 
tarily about the beautiful pine woods at Toblach, 
he wore himself out with thinking of old Andrew 
Croldsmith, and his lifelong grief, with his loyal 


A FORCED CONFESSION. 


281 


devotion to the man who was dealing treacher- 
ously with him, who month after month, and 
year after year, had let him hunger and thirst for 
the knowledge of his daughter’s fate, and had 
withheld the truth from him. He thought of his 
mother, too, whose steadfast, tender affection for 
his father liad been his ideal of a happy married 
love. How would these two, who were most 
closely concerned with it, bear the discovery ? 
How would their lives go on after they knew 
it? 

When Sidney and Phyllis arrived at the little 
station at Toblach they found Philip and Dorothy 
there to meet them. Dorothy welcomed him 
with her usual frank delight at seeing him, and 
she received Phyllis with shy friendliness. But 
Sidney saw in an instant that, as far as Philip 
was concerned, his worst fears were realized. He 
looked as if years had passed over him ; and not 
even the coming of Phyllis brought a gleam of 
pleasure to his face. 

She unwound the long gauze veil in which she 
had enveloped her head, and looked up at Philip 
with a coquettish grace. 

“All this way have I traveled to see you,” 
she said archly, “thousands and thousands of 
miles, and you look as grim as if I was a horrible 
fright.” 

“No, no, Phyllis,” he answered, taking both 
of her hands in his. “If I could feel glad at 
anything it would be to see you again. But my 
mother is ill ” 


282 


HALF BROTHEBS. 


‘‘ 111? ” interrupted his father. “ Your mother 
ill? Take me to her at once.’’ 

“I have something to tell you first,” said 
Philip in a low voice. ‘‘Dorothy will take 
Phyllis to the hotel ; and, if you are not too 
tired, will you come with me a little way along 
the road yonder ? ’ ’ 

“I am not tired,” answered Sidney. 

They walked away from the station toward the 
entrance of the Ampezzo Yalley. Every step of 
the road was familiar to Sidney, for it was at 
Toblach he had waited for Sophy, when he had 
left her in a boyish passion so many years ago. 
The boy walking beside him was the very image 
of what he had been then. He glanced at him 
again and again, in the promise of his immature 
manhood, scarcely a man yet, but full of a force 
and vigor, both of mind and body, not yet tem- 
pered and solidified by the experience that later 
years would bring. Philip strode along with the 
sternness of a youthful judge. His heart was 
very hot within him. It was his father on whom 
he sat in judgment, or he would have x^oured out 
his wrath in uncontrolled vehemence. He did 
not know how to begin to speak to his father. 

“Well, Philip,” said his father, at last, when 
they were quite out of sight and hearing of their 
fellow-men. 

They had wandered down to the margin of a 
little lake, in which the pale gray peaks w^ere 
refiected faultlessly. The wind moaned sadly in 
the topmost branches of the fir trees surrounding 


A FORCED CONEFSSION. 


283 


them, and overhead a vulture was flying slowly 
from crest to crest, and uttered a wild, piercing 
cry as Sidney’s voice broke the silence. 

“Philip!” he repeated, looking imploringly 
into his son’s face. 

“Father,” he said, “I have found out what 
became of Soj)hy Goldsmith.” 

They were simple words, and Sidney expected 
to hear them, yet they came like a deathblow 
from his son’s lips. There was in Philip’s voice 
so much grief and wonder, such contempt and 
indignation, that his father shrank from him as 
if he had given him physical pain. If his sin had 
but found him out in any other way than this 1 
For Philip was dearer to him than all else — ex- 
cept, perhaps, Margaret. His love, and pride, 
and ambition, centered in his son. He had dis- 
covered how precious he was to him during that 
long journey to Venice, when the dread of his 
death had traveled with him. And now it was 
Philip who spoke in those unmerciful tones, 
whose stern face was turned away, as if he could 
not endure to look at him. The bitterness of the 
future would more than balance the prosperity of 
the past if his son was alienated from him. 

“Philip,” he said in hesitating words, “I 
loved her — just as you love Phyllis. I was as old 
as you. I could not give her up. And my uncle 
would never have consented. It was a boyish 
infatuation. I did not love her as I love your 
mother — my Margaret!” he cried with a sharj) 
ring of pain in his voice ; “but just as you love 


284 


HALF BROTHERS. 


Phyllis, I loved Sophy, and I dared not run the 
risk of losing her. I cannot cut you off from 
your inheritance, let you marry as you please, 
but my uncle could have thrust me upon the 
world a penniless man.” 

‘‘Do you think I could ever forsake Phyllis ? ” 
asked Philip with scorn. 

“Not as you are; probably never,” answered 
his father ; ‘ ‘ for she could never be so unfitted 
to be your daily companion as Sophy was to be 
mine. To be linked with a woman who is im- 
measurably your inferior is a worse fate than any 
words can tell. She was not like her father, or 
Rachel. She was vain and ignorant, vulgar and 
passionate. We had terrible scenes together 
before we parted ; and I did not intend to for- 
sake her. Listen, and I will tell you how it came 
about.” 

“I was but a boy, no older than yourself,” he 
said as he finished his account. 

“ But when did you know that she was dead ? ” 
inquired Philip. 

“Not till after I knew your mother and loved 
her,” he answered. “ I let things drift till then, 
always dreading that Sophy would make her ap- 
pearance and claim a position as my wife. Then 
I sent out a confidential man to make inquiries, 
and he learned her sad fate. I sinned, Philip ; 
but my punishment will be harder than I can 
bear if I lose the love of my wife and children.” 

“But why did you desert your son?” Philip 
asked. 


A FORGED CONFESSION. 


285 


“ My son ? ” he repeated. 

“Yes,” continued Philip bitterly, “your first- 
born son, the child of Sophy Goldsmith ! How 
often you have called me your first-born son ! 
Oh, father, why did you desert my elder 
brother ? ’ ’ 

Sidney stood speechless. His first-born son, 
the child of Sophy ^Goldsmith ! This beloved 
boy here, in whom he had taken so deep a pride ; 
who had been all he could wish for in a son ; his 
heir, for whom he had worked and striven so 
hard to make for him a great place and a great 
name in the world, was not his first-born. There 
was an Ishmael risen up to dispute his inherit- 
ance with him. 

“ Philip ! ” he exclaimed, “ you are 'deceived, 
cheated. There was no living child.” 

“But I have seen him,” persisted Philip. 
“He is living near Cortina still. And I recog- 
nize a likeness to you. All the people know that 
he is the son of the English girl who died there 
thirty years ago. I have a letter here from 
Sophy Goldsmith ; and there are no proofs miss- 
ing to establish Martin’s claims.” 

He gave the letter into his father’s hands, and 
strolled away along the margin of the lake, that 
Sidney might be alone as he read it. Philip 
felt how terrible a moment this must be in his 
father’s life ; and a new and pacifying sense of 
compassion sprang up amid the fierce fire of 
his indignation. It was no longer a man in the 
prime of life, with the shrewdness, and wisdom. 


286 


HALF BROTHERS. 


and experience of life, who had been guilty of 
this base act, but a youth like himself, who had 
drifted into it through the adverse current of 
circumstances. When he heard his father’s 
voice calling to him presently, he went back 
with a feeling of fellowship toward him. His 
father’s face was gray and drawn, as if he could 
hardly bear his anguish, and his voice \vas low 
and broken. 

“My boy,” he cried, “forgive me! Have 
pity upon me ! ” 

“Oh, I do!” said Philip, clasping his hand 
and holding it in a grasp like a vise, while the 
tears came into his eyes. “I pity you, father; 
I pity you with all my heart ! ” 

“Does your mother know all this ? ” inquired 
Sidney after a while. 

“She knows something,” he answered, “but 
not through me ; and she has not spoken to me. 
I made up my mind to see you and tell you all 
before you met her.” 

“ That was right,” said Sidney. 

There was another silence, for their hearts 
were too full for words, and their thoughts were 
busy. It was Sidney who spoke first. 

“ It would break your mother’s heart to know 
all,” he said, “and we must not acknowledge 
this man as my son. Listen to me before you 
speak. He is a man now ; and he would be 
miserable if we took him away from all his old sur- 
roundings, his home, and his friends. It would 
be good for him to remain as he is. I will make 


A FORGED CONFESSION. 


287 


him a rich man ; richer than any of his neigh- 
bors. But he must not come to England ; he 
cannot take your place. Does anyone but you 
know that he is my son ? ” 

“No,” answered Phili}). 

‘ ‘ Then for the sake of everyone concerned we 
must keep this secret to ourselves,” continued 
his father. “ I would not ask you to do it if we 
had to sacrifice this man’s happiness or welfare ; 
but he would be tenfold happier and better off 
here, in his own place, than in England as my 
son and heir. That must not be, Philip. Do 
you think he could be otherwise than wretched 
in England ? ” 

“He is wretched now,” said Philip, as the 
recollection of the poor, persecuted outcast of 
the little hamlet came vividly to his mind. 

“ I will make him a rich man,” said^his father, 
“rich and x)rosperous. He shall have all 'his 
heart can desire ; but I cannot acknowledge him 
as my son.” 

“Oh, father ! ” exclaimed Philip, “no money 
can undo the wrong you have done him. He has 
led the life of a brute, and is as ignorant as a 
brute. He has been browbeaten and trampled 
on all his life. They have made a slave of him, 
and money will do him no good. It is we who 
must lift him out of his misery, and care for him, 
and teach him all that a man of thirty can learn. 
Don’t think of me. Surely I can bear this bur- 
den ; I have no dread of being a poor man. But 
I could never forsake my brother. If he is your 


288 


HALF BROTHERS. 


son, he is my brother, and I owe him a brother’s 
duty.” 

“ Your mother must know, then ? ” said Sidney 
in a tone of entreaty. 

“Yes,” he answered. 

“It will break her heart!” exclaimed his 
father. 

“ My mother would rather have her heart 
broken than that any wrong should be done,” 
replied Philip. 


CHAPTER XXXY. 

BEGINNING TO EEAP. 


Sidney found himself too unprepared for an 
immediate interview with Margaret to return 
with Philip to the hotel. He felt that he must 
be alone to realize the full meaning of his posi- 
tion. It was a matter almost of life and death to 
him. The country round was familiar to him, 
though it was thirty years since he had seen it, 
and he soon found a path which led him away to 
such a solitude as he sought. Busy as his brain 
was, jhe was at the same time intensely alive to 
all the impressions of nature. He felt the scorch- 
ing heat of the sun, and saw the shapes of the lofty 
peaks surrounding him, and heard the humming 
of insects, and the trickling of little brooks down 
the mountain side. It was a magnificent day, he 
said to himself. Yet all the while his mind was 
plotting as to how he could arrest the storm that 
was beating against that fair edifice, which he had 
been building for himself and for Philip through 
so many years. It was a house without a foun- 
dation, built upon the sand, and he, the archi- 
tect, was discovering too late that there was no 
foundation to it. But it must not be. If he 
could only bend Margaret to his will, convincing 


290 


HALF BROTHERS. 


her reason — for she was a reasonable woman — 
he did not fear failure with Philij). It was so easy 
and so rational a thing to leave this man where he 
had been brought up, of course providing amply 
for him. It would be so difficult and so inex- 
pedient to acknowledge him, and to place him 
in the position of heir to large estates. Surely 
Margaret would see how irrational, how impossi- 
ble it was to deprive Philip of that which had 
been his birthright for so many years, in favor 
of one who was ignorant that he had any birth- 
right at all, and who would be placed in a miser- 
ably false position if it was granted to him. 

He argued the question over with himself till 
he was satisfied of the ground on which he based 
it. It was not for himself, but for their first- 
born son, he would plead. Surely she would 
keep this secret for Philip’s sake if not for his. 

He turned back along the mountain path down 
into the valley, amazed to see that it was already 
the hour of sunset. Margaret must have been 
wondering what had kept him so long away from 
her. Was it possible that she could have been 
so near to him, after an absence of some weeks 
too, and he had not yet seen her ? He thought of 
the strong, smooth current of their love for one 
another, which had known hitherto no break or 
interruption, no suspicion or shadow of disap- 
pointment. She had been more to him than he 
had ever dreamed that a wife could be. She was 
a thousandfold dearer to him now than when she 
became his wife twenty-three years ago. If she 


BEGINNING TO REAP. 


291 


was estranged from him, what would his life be 
worth ? 

He saw Dorothy and Phyllis sitting together 
in their little balcony overhead, and heard them 
chattering and laughing together with the light- 
hearted laughter of young girls. This reassured 
him ; for Dorothy would not be so merry if Mar- 
garet was very ill or very sad. He passed on to 
her room and entered it. She sat in the twilight 
alone, her hands grasping the arms of her chair 
as if for support, and her face, ashy pale, turned 
toward him, with no smile or look of gladness 
upon it. He stood still at some distance, looking 
across at her as if a great gulf lay between them. 

‘‘ Margaret ! he cried at last. 

Her face quivered and her lips trembled, but 
she did not speak ; only her dark eyes gazed 
searchingly on him, as if she longed to under- 
stand him without words. She shrank from 
hearing his confession. 

“Margaret,” he said, “you have discovered 
the fate of Sophy Goldsmith ! ” 

The color mounted swiftly to her white face, 
and she bent her head ; but she kept silence. 
Sidney felt that he must still remain at a distance 
from her. 

“My darling!” he said mournfully, “you 
were only a child when I married her; I was 
little more than a boy myself, not older than 
Philip.” 

“You married her ? ” she asked, lifting up her 
head with a deep sigh of relief ; “ oh, how much 


292 


HALF BJROTHEBS. 


better it will be for her poor father and my 
Rachel ! ” 

“Yes, she was my wife,” he replied, “but I 
never loved her as I have loved you, Margaret.” 

“But why did you not tell?” she asked; 
“why did you not let me have your boy to bring 
up with my own ? How could you live with me 
hiding such a secret from me ? I let you read 
the inmost thoughts of my heart. How could 
you hide this secret from me ? ” 

“I told your father,” he answered, “and he 
agreed it was better kept secret.” 

“How many more secret chambers in your 
past are there which I must never enter? ” she 
said. “ And this secret, the most sacred of them 
all, that you were a father before I knew you — 
how could you keep this from me ? ” 

“ But I did not know it,” he replied. “ I con- 
cealed my marriage out of fear of being disin- 
herited by my uncle. Sophy had driven me mad 
by her temper, and I left her at Cortina, but I 
stayed here for some days exjDecting her to fol- 
low me. She had plenty of money, and knew 
very well how to manage for herself. Though I 
went on without her I left at each place a letter 
directing her where to go and what to do. Cer- 
tainly I ought to have gone back, but I thought 
she was sulking with me. I know she was but 
a girl ; I also was but a boy. I could not feel 
toward her as a man feels toward his wife ; she 
was more like a playmate, who, if she took of- 
fense, made me offended. Then I let things drift 


BEGINNING TO REAP. 


293 


on, afraid always of my uncle discovering my 
secret. But I never knew till this day that her 
child had lived.’’ 

“ But you knew that she was dead?” asked 
Margaret. 

“Good Heavens! yes!” he exclaimed. “I 
loved you the first moment I saw you, but I 
could never have owned it- before learning that 
she was dead. The messenger I sent here wrote 
to me that she was dead, though he said nothing 
about a child. I suppose he intended to tell me 
on his arrival, but he was killed in an accident 
to the diligence crossing the Arlberg pass. I 
knew nothing of this until Philip told me just 
now.” 

“But oh ! if you had but seen Sophy’s son ! ” 
cried Margaret with tears, “ the most miserable, 
the most degraded of all these peasants; a 
drudge, a slave to them. O Sidney ! how can 
we atone to him for all this misery ? We can 
never give him back his lost years.” 

“ JSTo,” he said in _a faltering 'voice, “ nothing 
could ever fit him now for an English life ; it 
would be all misery to him. We must make 
him happy in the only way happiness is possible 
for him. I will make him a rich and happy 
man in his own sphere, here among the'people who 
know him. They will exalt him into a little king 
when he is the richest of them all, instead of the 
poorest. Do not speak, Margaret ; listen to my 
reasons. He can never fill the place for which we 
have trained Philip so carefully. How could he 


294 


HALF BROTHERS. 


be a good landlord and magistrate ? How could 
lie become the husband of such a woman as ought 
to be our daughter-in-law, and the mother of my 
heirs ? It would be for his good as well as ours 
to leave him here. Think of Philip, of me, of 
the poor fellow himself. Ho one knows this 
secret except ourselves ; let it be as it has always 
been. I cannot think of Sojiky as my wife. I 
implore you for my sake, for Philip’s sake, our 
first-born son, let this secret be kept.” 

He was still standing where he had first ar- 
rested himself, as if a gulf lay between them ; 
and she was looking across at him with infinite 
sadness in her eyes. There was something miser- 
able in her steadfast gaze, blended with profound 
reproach. 

‘‘And what of Andrew Goldsmith?” she 
asked, “the poor old man who' will never cease 
to mourn and wonder over the fate of his lost 
child. Ho you think I could bear for him to go 
into the next life, and hear for the first time, 
perhaps from her own lips, the story of your 
treachery and mine ? Would not that tempt him 
to hatred and revenge even there ? And my 
dear friend Rachel. Could I look her in the face 
and feel my heart saying, ‘ I know now all the 
sad secret that has troubled you,’ and not utter 
it in words ? O Sidney ! how can you lay such 
a burden upon me ? God is the judge of our con- 
duct, and we are not more His children than 
this poor old father and your deserted son. Ho, 


BEGINNING TO REAP. 


295 


we cannot keep sucli a secret ! We must take 
the neglected outcast into our very hearts, and 
see wharatonement we can make.” 

In all their past life Margaret had yielded her 
judgment to his ; but Sidney felt that from what 
she had now said she would never swerve. It 
was useless to appeal to her on the score of the 
malignant gossip and painful dishonor he must 
bear himself ; it was equally useless to represent 
the loss to Philip of rank and fortune. These 
were worldly considerations, and Margaret would 
not stoop to notice them. He must seize the 
only weapon of defense which lay at home. 

‘‘ I cannot bear it,” he said, lashing himself 
into a rage. “I will disown the marriage, and 
defy the Goldsmiths to prove it. Philip shall be 
my heir. This base-born son of mine shall never 
take his place ! ” 

“And I,” said Margaret, wit li a tremor in her 
sweet voice, “will never live with you again 
until you own your son. I will own him ; and 
Philip, when he knows of his existence, will own 
him as his elder brother,” 

Her face was white with grief as his was with 
rage. She rose from her seat and stood looking 
at him for a moment, as if they were about to 
separate forever. He had just returned to her 
after one of the rare absences which had come 
but seldom during their married life. She could 
not recognize in him the husband she had loved 
so perfectly and trusted so implicitly. There was 


296 


HALF BROTHERS. 


baseness and selfishness, treachery and utter 
worldliness, in this man ; she acknowledged it, 
though it broke her heart to do so. Her grief 
was too great for words ; and with a silent ges- 
ture of farewell she went away into an inner 
room, leaving him in a stupor of dismay. 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

IN THE PINE WOODS. 

After Philip left his father on the shore of the 
little lake he, too, wandered about in loneliness 
for the rest of the day, unable to bear his anxiety 
and trouble in Phyllis’s presence, and equally 
unable to conceal them. She and Dorothy con- 
cluded that he was gone with his father on some 
hurried excursion. But early the next morning 
he knocked at the door of the room where the 
two girls were sleeping, and begged Phyllis to 
get up and go out with him into the pine woods 
lying behind the hotel. She grumbled a little, 
telling Dorothy in a sleepy tone that she could 
not bear going out before breakfast ; at his 
urgent and reiterated entreaties, she relented, 
and, after keeping him waiting for nearly an 
hour, she made her appearance in a very becom- 
ing and very elaborate morning costume. 

They were soon out of sight and hearing of the 
hotel, wandering slowly along the soft, dewy 
glades of the beautiful pine woods, with the 
morning sunlight streaming in long pencils 
through the openings of the green roof far above 
them. Here and there, through the rough, 
tawny trunks of the trees, they caught a glimpse 
of the great gray pinnacles of rock, with their 

297 


298 


HALF BROTHERS. 


fretwork of snow, rising high into tlie deep blue 
of the sky. Phyllis was enchanted with every- 
thing except the dew, which was spoiling the 
hem of her pretty dress, and taking the gloss off 
her little shoes. 

“ It is as beautiful as the scenery in the “ Mid- 
summer Night’s Dream at the Lyceum,” she 
said. “Do you remember it, and that delicious 
music of Mendelssohn’s? If it was moonlight I 
should expect to meet Oheron and Titaniay 
Phyllis felt that she was making herself very 
charming. Philip was an ardent admirer of 
Shakspere, and what could she say more 
agreeable to him than this allusion to one of his 
favorite plays ? But, to her great surprise, he 
seemed not to hear what she was saying. 

“My Phyllis,” he said, “I have something 
really terrible to tell you.” 

“Not that they are going to separate us 
again!” she cried. “I thought your father 
must have taken me into favor once more, or he 
would not have brought me all this way with 
him. He is not going to be tiresome again ? ” 
“No, no 1 ” he answered, pressing her hand, 
and keeping it in his own as they sauntered on ; 
“ we shall have no more trouble on that score. 
We need not fear any more opposition from my 
father. That is the one good thing in this trou- 
ble, for if I am not my father’s heir, he will not 
expect me to marry an heiress.” 

“What do you mean?” she asked in a tone 
of excitement. 


IN THE PINE WOODS. 


299 


“ I mean that my father has another son older 
than I am,” continued Philip. ‘‘You know all 
about poor Sophy Goldsmith as well as I do. 
Phyllis, it was my father who ran away with her, 
when he was no older than I am ; and they had 
a son, who has been living not far from here, at 
Cortina, ever since. He is eight years older than 
lam.” 

“Philip!” she exclaimed, standing still, and 
fastening her eyes upon his face with an air of 
incredulity, ready to break into a laugh as soon 
as the joke was repeated. 

“I cannot bear to speak of it, even to you,” 
he said gravely. “I wish to God it was not 
true. But I have read Sophy’s last letter to 
Rachel Goldsmith, and there is no mistake. It 
is undeniably true. What is worse, my mother 
is going away this morning. She sent for me 
last night, and said I must take her away by the 
first train this morning. She looked as if it 
would kill her. She wishes to go, and I see it is 
best. It is best for her and my father to be 
separated for a while.” 

“Separated!” ejaculated Phyllis. “Your 
father and mother ! ” 

“ For a time only, I trust,” said Philip. “ It 
has been too great a blow for her. Don’t you 
understand, my Phyllis? She has loved the 
Goldsmiths so much, and she remembers Sophy 
quite well, and has always been deeply interested 
in the mystery of her disappearance. And now 
the sudden discovery of this secret of my father’s 


300 


HALF DROTHERB. 


is too mucli for her. I have telegraphed for 
Rachel to come to Berne, and I am going to take 
my mother there at once, and then come back 
here to you and Dorothy.’’ 

‘‘But are you quite sure there is a son living ? ” 
inquired Phyllis. 

“ I have seen him, and spoken to him,” he re- 
plied. “ He has some resemblance to my father, 
and he is very like old Andrew. Dorothy saw 
the likeness in a moment. The worst of it is that 
he has lived among the lowest of the people, and 
seems almost imbecile. He is about thirty years 
of age, and is as ignorant as a savage. Poor 
fellow ! poor fellow ! ” 

His voice fell, and the tears smarted under his 
eyelids. Phyllis’s finely penciled eyebrows were 
knitted together with a quite new expression of 
profound and painful thought. He said to him- 
self he had never seen her look so pretty and 
charming, and he bent his head to kiss the fur- 
row between her eyebrows. 

“You are sure it is all true?” she asked. 
“You are not inventing it?” 

“How could I invent anything so horrible?” 
he said in amazement. “Think of what it 
means ! Think of what my father has done ! If 
it were not for you and my mother, I should 
wish I had never been born.” 

“Then you will never be Philip Martin of 
Brackenburn,” she continued, “and Bracken- 
burn will not be your estate. It will belong to 
this other son ? ” 


IN THE PINE WOODS. 


301 


‘‘ Of course,” he answered, “ the estate goes to 
the eldest son. But I do not care about being a 
poor man. They have christened him Martino. 
Martino Martin he will be.” 

“ Gracious Heavens ! ” she ejaculated. 

“So there will be no more op]position to our 
love for each other,” he went on in a more 
cheerful manner; “and I must set to work 
now to earn a living for you and myself. It 
will be very pleasant to work for one another — 
I for you, and you for me. You will wait for 
me, Phyllis?” 

There was no tone of doubt in the half ques- 
tion ; it was only asked that some sweet answer 
might be given. He was as sure of her love as of 
his own ; for had they not grown up for one 
another ? 

“ But there is Apley,” she said, after a short 
pause. “If this man takes your estate, you will 
take Hugh’s. It is Hugh who must work for his 
living.” 

“ Oh, no ! ” he replied ; “ Apley is settled on 
my mother’s second son, so it belongs to Hugh. 
My father had no idea that he had a son living, 
and it seemed fair for Apley to go to the second 
son.” 

“But is it quite certain that they were mar- 
ried?” asked Phyllis, with all the premature 
knowledge of a country clergyman’s daughter. 
“If they were not legally married, this man 
could not take your place.” 

Philip dropped the hand he still held. She 


302 


HALF BBOTHERS. 


had struck hard upon a chord in his nature 
which vibrated under her touch in utter discord- 
ance. Now and then she had jarred slightly 
upon him, and he had hastened to forget it, but 
here was a discord that would turn all his life’s 
music into harshness. 

“Phyllis, you do not know what you are say- 
ing,” he cried. 

“Oh! yes, I do,” she answered, half petu- 
lantly and half playfully. “ It is not likely that 
your father would marry a girl like Sophy Gold- 
smith. And if he did not, you will still be the 
heir, and some day I shall be Mrs. Martin of 
Braokenburn.” 

Philip walked on beside her in silence, his 
eyes fixed on the ground. 

“That is the first thing to find out,” continued 
Phyllis shrewdly. “I don’t believe there was a 
legal marriage, or if there was, the Goldsmith’s 
must prove it. Of course, your mother will be 
very mad about it for a while, but it will come 
right in the end ; and ‘ ‘ All’s well that ends well,’ 
you know. But isn’t it strange that, after all 
these years, we should find out about Sophy 
Goldsmith ? And your father knew all along, 
the naughty, naughty man 1” 

So smooth hitherto had been the current of 
their short lives that Philip had never seen 
Phyllis in any circumstances of great trouble or 
difficulty. She was still a young girl, and how 
shame or sorrow would affect her no one could 
have foretold. But at this crisis, with all his 


ZZV THE PINE WOODS, 


303 


own nature overwrought with shame for his 
father and sorrow for his mother, he felt how 
vast was the distance between them. They were 
dwelling in different worlds. Was it a premoni- 
tion of this disparity between them which had 
made his mother oppose their marriage ? 

He turned back abruptly toward the hotel, and 
they did not talk much on their way. Phyllis’s 
brain was busy, too busy for much speaking. 
If this terrible thing could possibly be true — 
though she rejected such a supposition — then, 
indeed, she must bid farewell to all the bright 
schemes she had laid for her future life. Philip 
would be a poor nobody, and she really was not 
fitted to be a poor man’s wife. She loved him, 
of course, and it would be intense misery to give 
him up. How she could part from him she did 
not know ; her mother must manage it for her, if 
the necessity ever arose. But to be plain Mrs. 
Martin, of nowhere in particular, living on a few 
hundreds a year ! That would be impossible. 
Still, what folly it was to be looking forward to 
things which would never happen ! She turned 
a bright face to Philip as he left her at the hotel 
door. 

“Take courage, and be comforted,” she said. 
“ It has all got to be proved first.” 

He turned away with a feeling of utter dis- 
couragement. All his world seemed shaken to 
its very foundations. His father had been guilty 
of a deed of the deepest baseness, and his in- 
tended wife was blind to that baseness. But he 


304 


HALF BBOTHEBS. 


had no time for musing on it. Dorothy’s voice 
arrested him, and, looking up, he saw her coming 
quickly to him, dressed as for a journey. Her 
face was troubled, and she spoke to him in im- 
ploring tones. 

‘‘ Your mother is leaving here by the first 
train,” she said, ‘‘and she says I must not go 
with her. Something has made her very un- 
happy ; her face grieves me more than I can say. 
Persuade her to let me go. She ought not to 
travel alone.” 

“I shall be with her,” he answered, “and 
Rachel Goldsmith will meet her in Berne. Ho, 
Dorothy, it would be a greater comfort to my 
mother if you stay here with my father. He is 
very fond of you, and he, too, is unhappy. You 
must stay with him and comfort him.” 

“Yes,” she said, weeping; “what has hap- 
pened I do not know, but I will do what you and 
Mrs. Martin think best. I do not know which I 
love the most. Is it any thing very dreadful ? ” 

“Yes,” he replied. 

“Is there nothing I can do besides staying 
with your father ? ” she asked. “ Philip, we all 
know how very, very rich I shall be — too rich. 
If any money is wanted, tell him to recollect how 
much there is of mine, more than any girl could 
use. But money losses would not make you 
miserable.” 

“Ho,” he said; “no loss of money would 
break my mother’s heart.” 

“That is how she looks,” resumed Dorothy, 


IN THE PINE WOODS. 


305 


“as if her heart was broken ; and oh ! I cannot 
bear to lose sight of her. If I was her own child 
she would tell me all about it, and I could com- 
fort her. But now, at the very worst moment, I 
feel what a stranger I am among you all.” 

“No, dear Dorothy,” he answered; “you are 
as dear as a daughter to her and my father. You 
will know all by and by, and you will see then 
you were of more use staying here than going 
away with my mother.” 

“And is Phyllis going with you? ” she asked. 

“ Phyllis ? Oh, no ! ” he said. 

“Pm afraid I was feeling a little jealous of 
Phyllis,” she said, smiling through her tears. 
“Of course, I know she is nearer and dearer to 
you all, except Mr. Martin, than I am ; but I 
think she could not bear trouble as I can do.” 

“ Trouble ! ” he repeated, “yes ; but could you 
bear shame ? ” 

“Willingly,” she answered. 

“Not shame only, but sin. Could you help us 
to bear our sins ? ” he asked. 

“Yes,” she said gravely; “if our Lord came 
into the world to take away our sins by bearing 
them himself, surely we ought to bear the burden 
of one another’s sins — we, who are all alike sin- 
ful. Have you any such burden to bear ? But I 
shall not have to bear either shame or sin for 
your father or mother — or for you,” she added 
softly, after a moment’s pause. 

“Thank you, Dorothy,” he said. 


CHAPTER XXXYIL 


KEMORSE. 

Sidney was unaware of Margaret’s intention, 
and was only awaiting some message from her to 
see her again, and try once more what persua- 
sion, backed by authority, could do to break 
down her resolution. The morning train came in 
and steamed away again, carrying Margaret and 
Philip in it, before he returned from a miserable 
stroll through the well remembered pine forests. 
Dorothy met him on her return from the station, 
with traces of tears on her face, and was the first 
to tell him that Margaret was gone. 

“She need not have done that,” he said to 
himself bitterly. 

But when he entered the room where he had 
seen her the night before, a great dread seized 
him. He felt as he would have done if she had 
been dead. There was the chair she sat in only 
last night; that was the book she had laid 
down ; those flowers she had gathered and ar- 
ranged for herself ; and now she was gone ! 
There was something of the desolation of death 
about the vacant place. 

A letter lay upon the table, and he seized it 
eagerly. Margaret Avas not one who used many 
words of endearment, or many caresses. She 

306 


REMORSE. 


sol 


thought that love, like religion, should show 
itself in deeds, not speeches. Hitherto she had 
never begun her letters to him in any other way 
than the almost formal one of “My dear Sidney.” 
This was different. 

“My beloved husband,” it ran, “it is because 
you are dearer to me than any other human 
being, dearer than my own life a hundredfold, 
dearer even than my own soul, tliat I cannot just 
now bear your presence. How I love you I can- 
not find words to tell ; my love for you is myself, 
my life. There is no bitterness in my heart 
toward you ; only an immense grief — an abyss of 
gloom and heaviness, which nothing but God’s 
love can fill. All my life, since I first saw you, 
you have seemed to me one of Christ’s true fol- 
lowers ; in the world but not of it ; a real dis- 
ciple, a faithful soldier of the cross. I never 
saw in you the shadow of a lie. You were to me 
truth and faithfulness personified. 

“And now it would be difficult, almost impos- 
sible, to see clearly what you have been, as long 
as I am near to you. My brain is confused; and 
it is necessary for me to get away, lest my feeble- 
ness should enfeeble you in doing what is right. 
There can be only one right way ; and I hope to 
stand beside you in the sorrowful years that are 
coming. I promise to do this — to come back and 
hold your hand, and walk by your side, sharing 
the burden with you. But do not think to avoid 
this burden, and these sad years. The harvest of 
a seed sown long ago is come, and we must reap 


308 


HALF BROTHERS. 


it, whether we do it humbly or defiantly. But 
I must go away now from you, my dearest one — 
from whom I never thought to separate till death 
should part us. — M argaret.” 

Sidney read these lines through again and 
again ; at first in such a paroxysm of anger as 
he had never felt since he had deserted Soifiiy, 
when he was in his early manhood. Was there 
not a kind of fanaticism in his wife’s religion— 
that blindness which is said to prevent devotees 
from seeing a thing in its own light? She de- 
manded of him to encounter the gossip and won- 
der of the vast circle of his acquaintances in the 
City and in society, to bring a slur on his fair 
fame, and, worse than all, to place his low born 
son in the position which her own boy had 
hitherto occupied as his heir. She asked him to 
doom Philip to the life of a comparatively iioor 
and obscure man. And for what ? That an old 
man and woman, who for thirty years had lived 
in suspense about their child’s fate, should at 
last hear that all this time she had been lying 
in her grave. If he could bring Sophy back to 
life, it would be different. It must make Andrew 
and Kachel Gfoldsmith more miserable to learn 
the truth since the truth was what it was. 

Margaret did not think of the dishonor this 
discovery would bring upon religion. For he 
was distinguished in the City, and in Parliament, 
both as a philanthropist and a religious man. 
He had been both since he had known her, and 
this sin, committed in his boyish indifference to 
all religious matters, must fling the shadow of a 


REMORSE. 


309 


total eclipse upon his career. Why should he 
make his fellow-Christians ashamed ? No scandal 
has so much charm as a scandal against a promi- 
nent Christian. And how easy it was to avoid it 
if Margaret would but consent ! No one would 
be any the worse, for he would keep his promise 
of making his eldest son a rich man in the station 
now belonging to him. Nothing but misery could 
come of any other course. 

Yet as he read again Margaret’s letter, with its 
strong and mournful expressions of her love, his 
anger subsided, and the idea of denying the 
legality of his first marriage grew slowly more 
and more repugnant to him. He saw, too, quite 
clearly, that he must lose Margaret if he pursued 
this plan. What measures she would adox)t, if 
he carried out such a purpose, he could not tell. 
But in any case he would lose her ; she would 
never live with him again if he denied his mar- 
riage with Sophy Goldsmith. Still he would not 
decide definitely what he would do till he had 
seen Sophy’s son. 

There was still time to reach Cortina that day, 
and after a hasty meal he set out, taking Doro- 
thy and Phyllis with him. He should see this 
eldest son of his in time to telegraph to Margaret, 
before Rachel Goldsmith could join her at Berne ; 
and she would not refuse his entreaty to keep 
silence, at least for a few days. He was ponder- 
ing over this new step, as they drove through the 
wonderful valley, where the clouds resting upon 
the crests of the mountains caught, in many- 
colored hues, the rays of the evening sun. It was 


310 


HALF BROTHERS. 


twilight when they reached the hotel ; but the 
twilight is long there, for the sun sets early be- 
hind the rocky walls which hem in the valley. 
The village lay tranquilly in a soft, gray light. 
How well he remembered it ! He shrank from 
entering the hotel, for it seemed almost certain 
that Sophy herself was awaiting his arrival there. 

Yonder lay the broad pathway through the 
fields, leading to the half ruined fortress where 
he had last parted with her. He turned down 
the familiar track as if urged by some irresistible 
impulse. It was about the same season of the 
year ; the same flowers and weeds were in bloom, 
and the crops were at nearly the same stage of 
growth. It might have been the same evening. 
Was the past blotted out, then ? Would that he 
could take up his life again as it was thirty years 
ago, and sow the seed of the future — oh, how 
differently ! 

But even now he turned with aversion from the 
idea of a life spent with Sophy Goldsmith. He 
fancied he could see her sitting on the flight of 
steps which led up to the church door, and that 
he could hear her shrill voice bidding him go 
away, and never return. Yet if he had been a 
true man, as Philip was, he could not have for- 
saken her. If Philip had found himself caught 
in such a mistake, a mistake so fatal to all hap- 
piness, he would have accepted the consequences, 
and done what he could to make the best of the 
future. But he had built all his life on a blunder 
and a lie. “I have pierced myself through with 
many sorrows,” he said to himself. 


REMORSE. 


311 


He was standing still, pondering over this long 
forgotten and very dreary past, and now as he 
uttered these words he lifted up his head and 
saw that he had paused under a wooden crucifix, 
one Avhich he remembered distinctly. The image 
of the Lord hanging upon it was worn and weather- 
beaten, the wood was bleached and pallid as if 
it had stood there long centuries ; yet still the 
bowed head, with its crown of thorns, possessed 
a pathetic sadness, as if this man also, Christ 
Jesus the Lord, had been pierced through with 
many sorrows — yes, with one vast sorrow unlike 
any other sorrow. He felt, as he had never felt 
before, that this grief beyond compare, this cruci- 
fixion of the soul as well as of the body, was his 
own doing. They were his sins which the Lord 
had borne in his own body on the tree ; and 
what he planned to do would crucify the Son of 
God afresh. 

“ God be merciful to me, a sinner ! ” he cried. 

It was late before he returned to the hotel ; 
but his mind was fully made np now. If he had 
never been a Christian before, he would be so 
from this hour, and whatever it might cost him, 
there should be no more hypocrisy, no more play- 
ing of a part, in his life. A bitter harvest was 
before him, but he would reap it unflinchingly to 
its last grain. The sting of his sin was that he 
could not save others from reaping it with him. 
And how large was the number of reapers ! 
Directly or indirectly how many persons must 
suffer from this early sin of his ! 


CHAPTER XXXYIII. 
chiara’s hut. 

Phyllis was gone to bed, but Dorothy was 
waiting for Sidney in the bare and comfortless 
dining room of the hQtel. She looked up wist- 
fully as he entered, for all day her thoughts had 
been anxious and troubled by the mystery which 
had so suddenly surrounded her ; and seeing his 
pale and haggard face she ran to meet him, and 
put her arms round his neck, kissing him fondly 
as a daughter might have done. He kept her 
hand in his as he sank down w^eariedly into the 
chair next to him, and he bowed his head upon 
the small, fond fingers, and she felt his tears fall- 
ing on them. Presently he looked up at her. 

“Dorothy,” he said, “you will never forsake 
me ! ” 

“ Never ! ” she exclaimed vehemently, “never ! 
not if all the world forsook you.” 

“ Even if you heard I was a base scoundrel, a 
selfish villain ? ” he asked. 

“Oh, but you are not that!” she answered, 
kissing him again ; “ there would be some mis- 
take. But if it was true, I sliould never forsake 
you ; you would want me all the more.” 

“ That is true,” he said. 

“ There has been a priest here,” she continued, 

312 


CHIARA^S HUT. 


313 


after a pause, “asking for Philip, and saying he 
must see him about some letter, and a man called 
Martino.” 

“I know all about it,” said Sidney, “and I 
will send him a message.” 

At sunrise the next morning Sidney set out for 
the hamlet where Chiara had lived. It was the 
fourth day since she died. Martino had followed 
the funeral procession, which he was not allowed 
to join, and had stood aloof seeing the coffin laid 
in the open grave. This woman had never been 
kind to him, she had led him the life of a dog, 
but she was the only person to whom he had in 
any way belonged. He knew no other home than 
the squalid hut, in which all his life had passed. 
In a dim sense it was as dear to him as a den is 
to a wild creature that inhabits it. The litter of 
leaves and straw in the corner where he always 
slept seemed the only place where he could sleep. 
Chiara’ s hand had been the hand that fed him. 
There was a void left by her death, a blank that 
his dull mind could in no way imagine filled up. 
But he was shrewd enough to know that his 
enemies would not let him return to the hut if 
they could help it, and as soon as he saw Chiara’ s 
coffin lowered into the grave, he stole away from 
the cemetery, and hastening up the mountain he 
secured possession of the wretched hovel, barri- 
cading the door, which was the only means of 
entrance. Here he remained deaf and dumb to 
the threats of his neighbors and to the entreaties 
and commands of the priest. The long years of 


314 


HALF BROTHERS. 


persecution and tyranny which he had undergone 
had produced the ordinary ^result of a dull and 
embruted nature. Those among whom he lived 
were little better than savages, with the lowest 
conceptions of duty and religion. Of humanity 
either to man or beast they knew nothing. Some 
of them were less cruel and harsh toward Mar- 
tino than the rest ; there were women who liad 
never struck him ; but he had been the miserable 
butt of the others until his bodily strength was 
great enough for his own defense, excepting from 
the brute force of men stronger than himself. 

At the bottom of his soul there was a profound 
sadness, a certain susceptibility inherited from 
his educated and civilized parentage, which had 
made him less callous under tyranny, than he 
would have been if he had been a foundling of 
their own race. In his childhood this suscepti- 
bility had displayed itself in bursts of passion 
and almost insane excitement ; in his manhood it 
changed to long fits of dumb and sullen lethargy. 
Since C Mara’s funeral he had lain motionless on 
the litter of straw in the hut, regarding the at- 
tacks of his neighbors outside with as much in- 
difference as he would have felt under one of 
the terrific thunderstorms which now and then 
threatened the little hamlet with imminent de- 
struction. His benumbed mind was almost as 
lethargic as his body. But this morning 
his enemies had exhausted their small stock 
of patience, which so far had been eked out 
by the presence of the padre, who wished to 


CHIABA8 HUT. 


315 


enter the hut alone and peacefully, in order to 
make sure that Chiara had given up the whole of 
her penurious savings to the Church. He had 
urged upon her in the last solemn moments before 
death the duty of withholding no xiortion of her 
beloved booty ; but he knew the peasant nature 
too well to trust implicitly even to the power of 
superstition where money was concerned, and 
he was anxious to search for himself among the 
accumulated rubbish of her last home. He had 
been compelled, however, to return to Cortina 
the night before, leaving strict commands that 
Martino should be left unmolested. 

When Sidney entered the, high, secluded valley 
and the hamlet came in sight, a strange scene 
lay before him. Round one of the wretched 
hovels the whole population was assembled in a 
wild circle of yelling savages, attacking it in 
every direction. There were not more than five 
or six men, but there was twice the number of 
women, as muscular and sinewy as the men, and 
a host of children. All of them were scantily 
clothed and their sunburnt limbs looked as hard 
as iron. A heap of enormous stones was piled 
up near the door of the hut, and the heavy thud 
as they were flung against it by brawny arms was 
echoed by the wall of rock behind. Sidney was 
still at a little distance when a loud shout of tri- 
umph reached his ears. One of the women was 
coming out of a neighboring hut with a lighted 
fagot in her hand, which she thrust up into the 
dried thatch of the roof. In another minute 


316 


HALF BROTHERS. 


half a dozen other fagots were fetched from 
the hearths, and the reek of the smoke rose up 
in a column in the pure morning air. 

Sidney hurried forward, wondering if he 
should find his son amid this maddened crew, 
when the door of the hovel was fiung open sud- 
denly from within, and a man stood in the low 
doorway — a man, a wild beast rather ! His 
long, matted hair hung about his face like a 
mane, and his bare limbs, scorched almost black 
with heat, and frost-bitten into long furrows by 
cold, looked hardly human. He was gasping 
for air, as if all but smothered by the sufi'oca- 
ting smoke; and as he stood there, blinded by 
the sudden light, a sharp stone fiung by one of 
the women struck him on the temple. A yell 
of mingled exultation and abhorrence followed 
the successful blow, and the miserable creature 
would have been stoned to death like a danger- 
ous wild beast if Sidney had not cried out in a 
tone of authority, to the utter surprise of the 
assailants. 

The lull would have lasted only a moment 
if Sidney had not bethought himself of a ready 
and effective means of diverting the angry mob. 
He thrust his hand into his pocket and fiung 
into the midst of them a handful of bronze and 
silver coins. There was an instant diversion and 
scramble for the money, and before any of them 
gave heed to him Martin rushed away, and with 
the speed of a scared and hunted animal fied 
up the precipitous rocks near at hand. When 


CHIARA'S HUT. 


317 


all the coins were picked up his enemies 
looked roun^ for him in vain. 

“I have no more money with me now,’’ said 
Sidney in Italian, “ but there is plenty more in 
Cortina for those who come down for it ; and 
the man who tells me where Martino is, Martino 
who was Chiara’s adopted son, shall . have a 
golden ” 

‘‘ Martino ! ” interrupted the most intelligent 
looking of the men, ‘‘that was Martino we were 
burning out.” 

*‘Oh, my God!” cried Sidney, staggering as 
if he had been struck by a blow as heavy as 
that which had wounded his son. For a moment 
or two he felt faint and stunned, unable to 
move or speak, and the circle of faces and figures 
around him appeared to whirl dizzily about him. 
He was conscious of the stare of their inquisitive 
and savage eyes, which were fastened upon him 
with unfriendly gaze, and he could hear the mut- 
tering of their uncouth voices. The hovel was 
blazing behind them, and the thick smoke was 
blown down in clouds upon him and them. He 
felt almost suffocated. Was it possible that he 
was about to die here among these terrible men 
and women ? He made a superhuman effort to 
shake off the deadness that was creeping over 
him. 

With his consciousness there returned to him 
the habit of authority and command. He drew 
himself up and looked round at them all with a 
keen gaze, from which they shrank a little, sulkily 


S18 


HALF BROTHERS. 


and abjectly. His knowledge of their language 
came back fluently to his aroused brain, and made 
it easy to address them. 

“ Your padre told me I should find Martino 
here, in Chiara’s house. What right have you to 
set that house on fire ? It is not yours.” 

“ He would not come out,” answered one of 
the women, for all the men were silent. Cer- 
tainly they had no right to destroy the hut, and 
the law was stern on offenders such as they were. 

“And why did you want him to come out?” 
asked Sidney. 

“Because he shall not live among us any 
longer,” replied the man who had spoken to him 
before ; “he is accursed, and he has the evil eye. 
His mother is in hell, and no mass can be said for 
her soul ; and he does not belong to us. No 
man of us will give him a hand, and no woman 
will give him a look. Would any woman here 
be the wife of Martino ? ” 

There was a roar of contempt and abhorrence, 
a laugh such as Sidney had never heard before. 

“ But where is he gone ?” he asked. 

“Up yonder,” answered the man, iDointing to a 
peak standing high and clear in the morning sky; 
“ there is a cave up there good enough for a wolf 
like him. Let him stop there.” 

“I am come here to take him away,” said 
Sidney ; “ he is my son.” 

The words sounded in his own ears as if spoken 
by some other voice. This poor, hunted, despised 
and wounded outcast his son ! It seemed as if 


CHIARA'S HUT. 


319 


before him was unrolled the record of the sad, 
desolate, neglected, most unhappy years through 
which his first-born son had passed, while every 
year of them had been crowned with prosperity 
and happiness to himself. The thought of it 
passed swiftly though vividly through his brain, 
as such remembrances do in the hour of death. 
A profound and uneasy silence had fallen upon 
the crowd around him. This rich Englishman 
had caught them in an unlawful act, and had 
witnessed their savage treatment of Martino. 
They knew how much influence such wealthy 
foreigners had with the mayor in the town below, 
where such men were treated with servile respect, 
and they were in dread of some terrible vengeance 
for their treatment of his son. 

“ I did not know he was living till the day be- 
fore yesterday,” said Sidney at last, speaking to 
himself rather than to them. 

Was it only so short a time ago ? It appeared 
to be ages. He had lived through a century of 
troubled emotion since he reached Toblach. 

“I will reward any man well who brings him 
to me,” he added, ‘‘ and now you had better put 
out this blazing thatch, if you wish to save your 
own huts.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

AT BAY. 


When Martino escaped from the burning 
hovel, he fled like a wild beast hunted by ene- 
mies. The precipitous rocks had ledges and 
stepping-stones familiar to him, and his naked 
feet took Arm hold on every point of vantage 
ground. He was quickly beyond all chance of 
being captured. In his boyhood he had often 
taken refuge in an almost inaccessible cavern, 
which he had found for himself, and where he 
could hide like a wolf in its lair. In later 
times, when Chiara’s hard yoke grew too galling, 
he had sometimes established himself in this den, 
and stayed in it till famine had driven him back 
to his miserable home. There was no means of 
getting food up there, for on the Dolomite rocks 
not even a blade of grass will grow ; and Martino 
knew well that if he became a marauder on the 
scanty flelds below, so difficult to keep in culti- 
vation, his neighbors would shoot him down as 
relentlessly as they would destroy a wolf or a vul- 
ture. He had carried up there, with much trou- 
ble and at a great risk, a small store of wood and 
turf, and he had made for himself a rude litter of 
dried leaves and straw. As there was no vegeta- 
tion there was no animal life on these barren rocks ; 


AT BAT. 


321 


there was no chance of catching a bird or a rabbit. 
But he could bear hunger for a long time, and 
here he was at least in safety. 

He slept the long hours of the day away, and 
awoke toward night ; then he went to the en- 
trance of his cave and sat down on the ground, 
his knees being almost on a level with his shaggy 
head. Very far below him lay the valley and the 
twinkling lights of Cortina, glistening in the 
distance like so many glowworms. The stars 
sjiarkled in the sky above like little globes of light. 
The watchman was already on the clock tower, 
striking the quarters of the hour upon the great 
bell, and its clear note came up to his listening ear. 
A thousand feet beneath him, so vertically below 
that he could have cast a stone on any of the 
roofs, lay the hamlet where he was so much hated. 
Now and then he saw a figure carrying a lantern 
flitting uneasily from hut to hut. All the day he 
had heard voices calling, from time to time, 
“ Martino! Martino!’’ but he had paid no heed to 
them in the depths of his cave. Now once more, 
before the people settled to their night’s rest, he 
heard a voice, pitched to a high, piercing note ; it 
was a woman’s voice, a young woman, whom once 
he had loved in a rough fashion and who had 
scouted him as if he was indeed an outcast and a 
pariah. 

“ Martino ! ” she cried, ‘‘ come down. We will 
not hurt you. Here is a rich English signore, 
and he says he is your father.” 

Martino laughed a low, cunning chuckle. 


322 


HALF BROTHERS. 


They meant to snare him, and put him to death 
out of their way, and this woman thought she 
could betray him to them. He made no answer, 
and gave no sign of life. Presently all the lights 
were put out, and every sound ceased in the 
hamlet, save the bleat of a kid now and then as 
it pressed nearer its mother’s side for warmth. 
Far away he could hear the howling of a wolf an- 
swered by the furious barking of a - watchdog. 
A moon near the full was rising over the cliffs, 
and shed a white light on the sharp, needle-like 
peaks. There was an incessant xffay of summer 
lightning on the northern horizon, throbbing be- 
hind the long and jagged outlines of the moun- 
tains. All about him was solemn, impressive, 
and mysterious. If Philip had been there he 
would have been filled with the most profound 
admiration and awe. But Martino was too sav- 
age to feel either ; the aspects of nature had little 
more effect upon him than upon a wolf. When all 
was at last still and dark, even in Cortina, he 
rose, and cautiously descended toward his old 
home. 

The few watchdogs knew him too well to be 
disturbed by his soundless footsteps as he passed 
among the silent huts as if he had been a ghost. 
The foundations of the walls alone remained of 
Chiara’s hovel, and there was still some warmth 
where the roof had been left smoldering on 
the ground. Martino squatted down in the 
midst of the ruins. It had been nothing but 
a squalid and dreary home to him, but it was the 


AT BAT. 


323 


only one lie had ever known. This was the one 
spot on earth that had been his dwelling-place, 
and his enemies had destroyed it with an utter 
destruction. There was no roof now to shelter 
him, no door he could shut in the face of his foes. 
He felt it with a vague bitterness, as some beast 
might feel the destruction of its hole, and tears 
filled his eyes, and rolled slowly down his rough 
and furrowed face. 

He roused himself after a while, for he knew 
the nights were short ; and, being fleet of foot, 
he ran down the steepest paths to Cortina, to pick 
up any food he could find for the coming day. 
There were roots growing in the fields there on 
which life could be sustained for some time, and 
his dull brain was untroubled by forebodings of 
the distant future. He prowled round the hotel, 
where Sidney was sleeping a troubled sleep, and 
picked up some fragments of food, which the 
wasteful servants had thrown through the window 
as the easiest way of getting rid of them. The 
dogs would have eaten them in the morning, but 
they were a Godsend to Martino, who carried 
them away in his ragged clothes. When he 
reached his cave at dawn, and the rising sun shot 
its earliest beams into it, they fell upon as poor 
a wretch as the sunlight would find out during 
the livelong day. 

Once more he slumbered all day, hearing at 
intervals the attempts made to reach him in his 
fastness, and the voices calling to him repeatedly, 
all with one accord saying that his father was 


324 


HALF BR0TEEB8. 


come and was searching for him. He laughed to 
scorn their attempts. Not a man among them 
would dare to scale the precipice ; and he did not 
believe that there was anyone on earth who would 
claim him as a kinsman. His father ! He had - 
heard too often of his mother and her accursed 
fate, but no one had ever spoken of his father. 
His mother’s grave he knew ; and once, when 
there was in his heart a strange, confused spring- 
ing up of tenderness — it was when he felt a sort 
of love for the girl who scorned and repulsed him 
so indignantly — he had reared a rude cross at the 
head of it and collected white pebbles from the 
river to mark its outline. But his father ! 

At night he stole down to Cortina again, and 
picked up any fragments thrown outside the 
doors for the scavenger dogs. But he did not go 
to the desolate ruins, which were no longer a 
shelter for him. And so two or three days and 
nights passed by, Martino living as wild a life as 
any wild and noxious beast, while Sidney used 
every means that could be thought of to capture 
him. Not Sidney alone. All the population of 
the Ampezzo Valley knew something of the errand 
that had brought the rich English signore to 
Cortina, and every man was eager to gain the 
reward he offered, but no one knew a safe ap- 
proach to the cave, and, if Martino was on the 
watch, it seemed certain death to make any 
further attempt to seize him. 

At last Sidney himself ascended as far as any 
man could climb on the almost sheer face of the 


AT BAY. 


325 


peak, and drew as near to his son as was possible, 
calling to him in his pleasant and persuasive, but 
unfamiliar, voice, so different from the voices he 
was used to hear that there was some chance of 
his paying heed to it. But Martino was sleeping 
soundly at the time, and did not hear his father’s 
voice ; and, possibly, if he had heard it he would 
have thought it a fresh snare. Sidney retraced 
the perilous path, disheartened. 

“He will die of famine,” said the guide who 
was with him. “ Perhaps he is dying now, and 
cannot move himself to answer.” 

It was a terrible thought to Sidney ; yet it 
seemed only too likely. Sophy’s son was perish- 
ing like a wounded creature that creeps for shelter 
into its den and dies a lingering death of famine. 

“We must save him,” he cried. “I will give 
anything you ask if you will save him.” 

“If we knew for certain he was dying,” said 
the guide, scanning the rock carefully, “I would 
do it ; but if Martino is not dying he is as strong 
as an ox. It would be death to any man who 
climbed up to his cave. We will get him when 
he is dead,” he added cheerfully. 

Sidney went down into the valley hopeless and 
heavy-hearted. Yet underneath the heaviness 
of his heart lay a vague and wordless impression 
that after all it would, perhaj)s, be best for Martin 
to die. For, if he lived, would it be possible ever 
to civilize this wild peasant, and bring him in 
any degree into harmony with the life of civiliza- 
tion and luxury to which he by birth belonged ? 


326 


HALF BROTHERS. 


The position and career for which Philip had 
been educated with so much care must be filled 
by this incapable, untrained, utterly ignorant 
savage. It would be impossible to fit him, at his 
age, for the position of an English farmer; he 
was below the level of the lowest English laborer. 
The sin of his father had been so visited upon 
him that nothing could atone to him for it in this 
life. Sidney acknowledged that it was his sin 
which fell so heavily on his son ; he repented of 
it in bitter contrition of heart. But would it not 
be best for all if Martin was dead ? 

He had nearly reached Cortina, disheartened 
and perplexed beyond measure, when Dorothy’s 
clear young voice roused him from his sad 
thoughts, and he saw her coming up the steep 
and stony path to meet him. 

‘^Good news!” she cried blithely; “good 
news ! Philip is come back. Mrs. Martin has 
sent Philip back to us. That is good news to 
bring you.” 

Good news, and yet unwelcome. For on no 
one more than Philip, excepting Martin, would 
the burden of his early error fall. If he could 
have borne all the penalty himself it would have 
been easier to bear; but he must see Philip 
crushed beneath it. Philip’s speedy return was 
a sign that neither his wife nor son entertained 
any bitterness of anger against him, and so far 
it was good news. But their unselfish sympathy 
made his own conduct appear more base. It 
placed them too far apart from him. It seemed 


AT BAY. 


327 


as if he could almost better have borne their re- 
sentment. 

“He is coming after me,” said Dorothy. “I 
only ran on to tell you.” 

She ran down again, leaving the father and son 
to meet each other alone ; and she was not out of 
- sight when Philip reached him. There was a 
subtle change about him ; Sidney felt that he 
had lost him as a son, but gained him as a friend. 
He was his comrade, ready to help him in every 
difficulty, and^loyal to him with an immovable 
loyalty. The fgrave yet cordial sympathy of his 
manner went to Sidney’s heart ; and yet it chilled 
him. This '^passionately loved boy of his was a 
man, looking at him with a man’s eyes, and the 
feeling latent in this clear, affectionate gaze was 
pity, not reverence. The change was a subtle 
one hardly to be seen, yet very painful to him. 

“Phyllis has told you?” he said. 

“All she knows,” answered Philip. “I con- 
clude that my brother has made his escape to the 
mountains, and cannot be captured.” 

He uttered the wbrds “my brother” simply, 
but Sidney winced on hearing them. 

“I have not spoken of him to Phyllis or 
Dorothy,” he said. “If they know anything it 
must be through the chambermaid. It was im- 
possible to speak to them about it, though all the 
people in Cortina know.” 

“ I told Phyllis I had an elder brother living,” 
replied Philip. “ I told her at Toblach.” 

“ And what did she say ? ” he asked. 


328 


HALF BROTHERS. 


^‘She talked like a girl who has read nothing 
but novels,” he replied, evading a more direct 
answer. 

And now, as Sidney saw his son standing be- 
fore him, such a son as his whole heart could 
take delight in, the thought of disinheriting him 
in favor of the untrained and probably untamable 
savage, who possessed his birthright, came back 
to his mind with irresistible force. It seemed im- 
possible to do it. This boy, whom he loved with 
passionate ardor, to be displaced by a man whose 
existence was a shame and a sorrow to him ! He 
himself was in the prime of life — too old!to retrieve 
the past and shake off its burden, and too young 
to escape from its consequences for many years — 
years of comparative dishonor and of keen disap- 
pointment. His voice was broken as he spoke 
again to his son. 

‘‘Philip,” he said, “ must we sacrifice all? Is 
there a necessity to own this man ? ” 

“Yes,” he answered unhesitatingly. 

“ I cannot see it,” said his father. “ I am like 
one walking in darkness. My conscience says 
nothing, except that I have sinned. If I do this 
I act by your mother’s conscience.” 

“ And mine,” responded Philip. “My mother 
and I have but one mind about it.” 

“ I will yield to you,” he said, “ but my punish- 
ment is greater than I can bear.” 

They went on their way down into the valley ; 
and Sidney told him of the perilous place in 
which Martin had taken refuge, and the opinion 


* AT BAY. 


329 


his guide had given that the poor fellow must be 
dying of famine. It was impossible to attempt 
anything that evening, but the next morning at 
sunrise, Philip said, a scaling party must go to 
the precipice and ascend it, under his own di- 
rections. He was a member of the Alpine 
Club ; and to leave any fellow-creature perishing 
through hunger and faintness from wounds would 
be infamous. He must hasten to make his prepa- 
rations, and learn who were the most courageous 
and adventurous guides. 


CHAPTER XL. 

PHYLLIS AND DOROTHY. 

But as they passed the small public garden, 
lying on the steep slope of the river banks, Philip 
caught sight of Phyllis sitting alone on one of 
the benches. He had seen but little of her at 
Toblach, and that was after a separation of some 
months. It was an opportunity not to be missed, 
and his arrangements could very well be made 
an hour later. Though the sun was gone down 
behind the mountains, the air was still warm and 
balmy, and the sky was of that deep blue which 
is caused by the absence of mist and vapor. 
Far away on the highest ' peaks the sunlight 
lingered, making all their soft colors glow with a 
delicate bloom and luster. Phyllis’s pretty face, 
as she looked up at his approach, was a little 
sulky. 

“Your father is making a tremendous fuss 
about this man,” she said, looking up into his 
face with a hard expression in her bright eyes ; 
“all the world is talking of it here. Is it pru- 
dent? ” 

“My darling!” he answered fondly, “this 
man is my elder brother — my father’s son. How 
can we make too much fuss, as you call it ? We 
must do all we can to compensate him for the 
past” 


PUTLLIS AND DOROTHY. 


331 


“But you can never reclaim him from his 
savagery — never!” she rejoined. “A man of 
thirty ! He must remain a monster all his life. 
Is it certain that your father really married 
Sophy Goldsmith ? ” 

“ My father says so,” he answered shortly. 

“ But they could not prove it,” she continued 
with eagerness, and a shrewd expression in her 
face which made it look almost hateful to him, 
“and he is not compelled to own it. Why could 
he not have left him here in peace ? It is the 
only wise thing to do. I don’t say leave him in 
such poverty and misery as you find him in ; no ! 
that would be cruel and unjust. It is not too 
late yet to act sensibly. Why do not you all 
quietly hush it up \ The Goldsmiths need never 
know ; and you can provide comfortably for him. 
You will only work misery all round by taking 
him to England as your father’s eldest son and 
heir. A monster like that to become an English 
gentleman ! Good gracious ! ” 

Philip made no answer. Such considerations 
had presented themselves to his own mind, and 
he had dismissed them hastily, as hateful tempta- 
tions arising from the evil that was in his nature. 
Now that Phyllis uttered them they seemed more 
hateful from her lips. He did not know what 
the future might bring, but the present brought 
to him a clear and simple duty. Justice must 
be done to Sophy Goldsmith’s son. 

“Is it too late, dearest Philip ? ” asked Phyllis 
persuasively, both of her hands clasping his own. 


332 


UALF BROTHERS. 


‘‘ Will not your father listen to reason ? Don’t 
you see what an enormous, enormous difference 
it makes to us ! To me as much as to any of 
you. You are sacrificing me, I have turned it 
over and over in my mind till I am sick and weary 
of it. Have you never thought of what such a 
change must mean for me ? ” 

“ I have thought of it, my dear one,” he said 
gently. ‘‘ You are always first in my thoughts. 
But I must act according to my conscience.” 

“ I know you cannot say much about it,” she 
urged, ‘‘ but shall I tell your father that I know 
all, and reason with him % He may be too excited 
to act wisely. Let me speak to him.” :v i 
“ No ! no ! ” he exclaimed, ‘‘ there is but one 
course before us ; my mother pointed it out 
clearly, but I hope I should have taken it of 
myself. Martin must come home with us to 
England, and we must do what we can to reclaim 
him, and fit him in some degree for the future. 
You must help us, Phyllis — you and Dorothy.” 

“You had better go and tell Dorothy of her 
fine task, then,” said Phyllis peevishly. 

Philip was not long in finding Dorothy, who 
had sauntered away, following the little tracks 
that crossed the open fields, to gather the wild 
flowers which were blooming in j)i’ofusion. She 
saw him coming toward her, and retraced her 
steps to meet him. She had hardly spoken to 
him before, so eager had she been to carry the 
good news of his arrival to his father. Her face 
was lighted up with a very pleasant smile. 


PHYLLIS AND DOROTHY. 


333 


“How glad I am you are come back!’’ she 
exclaimed. “ Your father has been so wretched 
and low-spirited. O Philip I is it true that 
Andrew Goldsmith’s daughter is found at last? 
How did she come here ? and is she dead ? and 
what had Mr. Martin to do with it ? If I might 
only know the truth I should be so thankful.” 

“I will tell you, Dorothy,” he said. “My 
father married Sophy Goldsmith when he was a 
young man about as old as myself. Secretly, for 
fear of his uncle ; and they came here, as we did, 
out of Italy, thirty years ago. They quarreled, 
and he left her, expecting her to follow him ; but 
she died, leaving a child behind her, and he 
never knew it.” 

“He did not know that she was dead!” ex- 
claimed Dorothy. 

“He let things drift,” answered Philip with 
an unconscious accent of scorn, “because he was 
afraid of his uncle discarding him. He made no 
inquiries after her till he wanted to marry my 
mother ; and then his messenger sent him word 
that Sophy Goldsmith was dead, but said noth- 
ing about the birth of their son. And my father 
was satisfied ! But the child grew up here among 
these peasants. He was the man you saw at the 
festa^ who was like Andrew Goldsmith.” 

Dorothy walked on beside him in silence, and, 
somewhat surprised by it, Philip looked down 
into her half averted face, and saw the tears 
streaming down her cheeks. 

“Oh, poor Andrew!” she sobbed at last; 


334 


HALF BROTHERS. 


‘‘poor old man! And poor Sophy! How he 
has mourned for her ! and how he has almost 
worshiped Mr. Martin ! How will Andrew bear 
it, Philip ? How can your father bear it ? ” 

“He is all but broken-hearted,’’ he replied, 
“and so is my mother. They look already 
years older, Dorothy. It is we younger ones who 
must go to their help now. We must make them 
feel that the future will not be a failure, even 
after this blow. Why cannot we in part reclaim 
my brother ? He can never be an educated man, 
not a civilized man accoi'ding to our notions. 
But after all, civilization is as much a fashion as 
reality. He need not remain a brute or a savage. 
The grandson of Andrew Goldsmith and my 
father’s son must have something in him which 
will make him not altogether irreclaimable. 
You will help us, Dorothy ? ” 

“Do you remember how wild and uneducated 
I was when your father found me ? ” she asked. 
“ I know I can never have such dainty ways as 
Phyllis ; and this poor fellow can never be like 
you. But he will improve as I have done.” 

Philip could not help laughing as he looked at 
her, and thought of the rough, uncouth man his 
brother was. The tears tilled her eyes again. 

“ I have seen him,” she continued, catching her 
breath, as if she could not quite control her sobs, 
“every night since we came back. Oh, how 
dreadful it is I cannot say ; and I never thought 
he was Mr. Martin’s son. He is just like a wild 
creature prowling about the houses. The first 


PHYLLIS AND DOROTHY. 


335 


night I heard him I was awake, and I stole quite 
quietly on to the balcony, wondering if I should 
catch sight of a wolf down in the street, and there, 
in the moonlight, was a miserable man searching 
in the gutters for food. Ever since I have taken 
some bread from dinner and let it down to the 
ground just under my balcony, and he has come 
for it every night.” 

‘‘Thank God ! ” cried Philip in an accent of 
unutterable pity and amazement; “then he is 
not dying of famine. And that is my brother ! ” 

“I just spoke a word to him last night,” she 
went on. “I spoke very softly. ‘ Poor man,’ 
I said in Italian, and he lifted up his head and 
threw his hands above it. Then he ran away 
very swiftly, without making a sound.” 

“ Oh, if my father had only known ! ” he 
said. 

“I did not tell him, he seemed so absent,” 
replied Dorothy ; “but the poor fellow will come 
again to-night most likely. We will sit in the 
dark watching till he comes, and you can see him 
from my balcony. The moon rises later every 
night, but there will be light enough.” 

The vision he had seen the previous night had 
haunted Martin’s dull brain all the day. He 
had stolen under the windows of the hotel, where 
he had never failed to find food from the first 
night he had sought it in the streets. Suddenly 
a white, quiet form, standing in the moonlight on 
the balcony above him, like some image of tlie 
Blessed Virgin, such as he had often seen in 


336 


HALF BROTHERS. 


shrines and churches, spoke to him in a low, soft, 
sweet voice, such a voice as the Blessed Virgin 
might have. The vision hardly frightened him, 
and yet he fled from it, and hurried back to his 
place of refuge. He pondered over it in a con- 
fused way all through the day. Legends of the 
apparition of angels, but more often of demons, 
had been told to him and the other children in 
his earliest days. It was not strange that such 
a blessed vision should be seen, but it was strange 
that it appeared to him, whose mother was 
accursed in hell. ^Was it possible that this white 
angel had come to tell him better news of his 
mother ? Why had he fled so swiftly, when he 
felt so little fear of it ? Would he see it again if 
he went down into the valley % 


CHAPTER XLI. 

Margaret’s conflict. 

Margaret had sent Philip back to the Ampezzo 
V alley as soon as she reached Berne, and before 
Rachel Goldsmith could join her there. The feel- 
ing that she had left her husband apparently in 
anger — though it was no ordinary anger that had 
possession of her — made her anxious that their 
son should return to him as soon as possible. 
Philip was disinclined to leave her ; but they 
talked together quietly and fully of this terrible 
discovery, and of all its consequences, and she 
pointed out to him what, in her eyes, his path of 
duty clearly was. He must accept the past, with 
all its present outgrowth, and not make the 
harvest more bitter than it was by ineffectual 
reproaches and regrets. What did it really 
matter, for the brief span of this life, whether he 
passed through the world as a poor man or rich, 
distinguished or obscure 1 He was running the 
race set before him, and far other eyes than those 
of man were witnessing his career. Margaret, 
from her lofty point of view, was nearer Philip 
in his youthful idealism than Sidney could be, 
and his mother’s counsels gave to him the courage 
and hopefulness which seemed to his father so 
strange and pathetic. 


337 


338 


HALF BR0THEB8. 


But Margaret herself was passing through the 
fiercest and most painful crisis of her life. The 
blow that had fallen had struck at the deepest 
roots of her being. It seemed as if she had linked 
her whole existence, down to its innermost fibers, 
with a nature absolutely at variance with it. 
This husband, whom she loved so perfectly, had 
been living all these years beside her a life of base 
treachery and dissimulation. She marveled as 
she thought of his daily intercourse with her 
maid Rachel, Sophy Goldsmith’s aunt, and of his 
constant friendliness toward Andrew. How could 
he bear to see their grief and suspense, nay, even 
pretend to share it, and to pursue the search after 
their lost child? Was it possible that human 
nature contained such depths of duplicity ? He 
had kept silence amid all their mourning, and 
made his silence seem full of sympathy. To be 
guilty of such infamy, for any reason whatever, 
seemed inexplicable to her. But to do it for the 
sake of money and position ! If he had not owned 
it with his own lips, no force of accumulated 
evidence could have compelled her into belief. 

Yet her heart was very tender toward him. 
His sin seemed to stain her own soul, so closely 
was she bound to him ; for still she loved him. 
Rather she felt as if she loved him with a deeper 
fullness, because of her unutterable pity for his 
misery. She did not know for certain what he 
would do ; but she would hope, even against hope, 
that he would x)ass through this gulf that lay 
between them, and reach her on the clear heights 


MAmARETS CONFLICT. 


339 


from which she looked down upon his wrong- 
doing. He was fallen indeed ; but she would 
rather be his wife than fill any other position in 
the world. He could never be less dear to her 
than he had always been. 

She blamed herself for her too great reticence 
and silence as to her own spiritual experience. 
It was so sacred, and yet so natural to her, that 
she had rarely attempted to put it into words. 
If she loved her husband’s soul it must show 
itself in deeds, not speech. Her love to God, her 
discipleship toward Jesus Christ, must be dis- 
played in the same way ; if those around her 
could not see it in her daily life, it would be use- 
less to proclaim it. What she felt herself she 
attributed to others. God was nearer to every 
soul than any fellow-creature could be, and his 
dealings with each soul was wrapped in a veil 
impenetrable to the understanding or compre- 
hension even of those closest and dearest to it. 
What God was saying to her husband’s soul she 
could not know. And no action of Sidney’s life 
had taught her that they were worlds apart in 
their spiritual experience. 

Now she saw in a new light that sin which 
Christ denounced above all sins — hypocrisy. In 
a book she had read a short time before she had 
come across these sentences: “Howbeit now I 
know well that Jesus came not to prophesy 
smooth things, but to teach us the truth. There- 
fore was it most needful that he should speak 
the truth, and nothing less than the truth, con- 


340 


HALF BROTHERS. 


cerning the Pharisees, to the intent that the eyes 
of all mankind might be opened, even to the gen- 
eration of generations, that they might discern 
that the sin of sins is hypocrisy. For other sins 
wound, but this sin slayeth, the conscience. 
Perad venture, also, Jesus foresaw that a time 
might come when certain even among his own 
disciples would err as the Pharisees erred, shut- 
ting their eyes against the truth, as being unfit 
and not convenient. He, also, that came to re- 
deem all the children of men from all evil, was it 
not most necessary that he should make clear in 
the sight of all men what was the greatest evil ? 
For if men knew it not, how could he redeem 
them from it P’ 

This had been Sidney’s crowning sin. He had 
so acted a part that, unawares, he had grown to 
consider it his real nature ; it had almost ceased 
to be hypocrisy, save in the sight of God, whose 
eye saw the false foundation on which the build- 
ing was raised. For surely Sidney had not alto- 
gether feigned his enjoyment of the privileges and 
duties of Christianity. He had gone with her to 
the table of the Lord ; he had given generously, 
not only of his wealth, but of his time and 
talents, to the service of his fellow-men. He had 
taken his stand in public life as a religious man. 
“Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous 
unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy 
and iniquity.” This was the condemnation of 
her Lord against the man who was dearer to her 
than her own soul. 


MARGARETS CONFLICT. 


341 


She felt that she was right in facing this crisis 
alone, free from the distracting affection of Sid- 
ney. To have stayed near him would have taxed 
her strength too heavily ; for all life was under 
an eclipse ! Was it not an abiding darkness, 
which could not pass away on this side of the 
grave ? Was he not in an abyss of gloom, into 
which she must go down, and dwell with him 
there ? Gloom and sorrow and remorse she would 
share with him, but not the infamy of a new sin. 

Even in the deepest abyss God would be with 
her. This was the hope she clung to. She re- 
called the vision she once had of the love of God. 
There was absolutely no limit, no change, in that 
Divine love, though it might take the form of an 
apparent vengeance. “ Even in hell thou art 
there ! ’’ she said, and she felt strong enough to 
go down to the nethermost depths, if underneath 
her she were still to feel the Everlasting Arms. 

The nethermost depth to her would be to sepa- 
rate herself from Sidney. But if he persisted in 
carrying out his threat, and being guilty of this 
new iniquity, even if her heart broke she would 
no longer live with him. She knew what the 
world would say of it : that it was only a foolish 
woman’s jealousy and prejudice, a straining at a 
gnat, if she could not forgive so boyish a sin as 
that of which he would seem to have been guilty. 
But she took no account of the world. If he 
persisted in his threatened injustice to Sophy’s 
memory, if he brought this bitter shame upon the 
heads of her dear old friends, it would be a base 


342 


HALF BBOrUERS. 


act of perfidy, showing him absolutely unrepent- 
ant toward God and man. It would be impossi- 
ble to her to resume her former wifehood with 
him. 

Rachel Goldsmith could not be ignorant of the 
fact that her beloved mistress was passing 
through some great sorrow. But she was a reti- 
cent woman, with great natural refinement, and 
she said nothing either to express her own sym- 
pathy or to lead Margaret to confide her troubles 
to her. She was older than her mistress by fif- 
teen years, and she cared for no one in the world 
so much as for Margaret and her two sons. 
Philip and Hugh had grown up under her eyes, 
and she was almost like a second mother to them. 
To her strong affection was added that loyal and 
faithful respect with which an old servant looks 
upon the future masters. 

Margaret spent most of her time in her own 
room in the hotel at Berne, through the windows 
of which she could see the wonderful range of 
snowy Alps, that stretched across the horizon, 
and, catching tlie evening light, looks so un- 
earthly in its marvelous purity and beauty. It 
seemed to her as if beyond those white and rosy 
peaks lay ‘‘the land that is very far off.” That 
strong yearning to be gone thither, safely shut in 
from the vanities and vexations of life, so often 
expressed in old Latin hymns, had taken posses- 
sion of her, and it seemed to her as if she had 
only to will, to rise up, and cross over the invisi- 
ble threshold of the other life. Should she go or 


MARGARETS CONFLICT 


343 


stay? The choice was almost given to her. 
Would she depart at this moment, and be for- 
ever with the Lord ? Or would she stay to fight 
the sore battle her beloved ones were engaged in ? 
“ Let me stay ! ’’ she said half aloud. 

At that moment Rachel entered the room 
quietly with a letter. It Avas a thick packet, 
addressed to her in her husband’s handwriting, 
and Margaret opened it with trembling fingers. 
A number of yellow, time-stained pages fell from 
it as she seized a little note written by Sidney. 

‘‘My Margaret,” he said, “I have seen my 
son, and I will acknowledge him. But unless 
you stand by me my punishment will be greater 
than I can bear. I am like a man walking in 
darkness amid pitfalls, without guidance. I will 
be guided by you. Do not forsake me, my wife. 
The letter I enclose was written thirty years ago 
by Sophy to Rachel. Would to God it had been 
sent to her then ! To-night we expect to find 
Martin, who has fled from us to the moun- 
tains.” 

Margaret gathered up the scattered leaves, and 
called to Rachel, who was just leaving her again 
alone. 

“Rachel!” she cried, “I can tell you my 
sorrow and my secret now. It concerned you 
more than me, perhaps. And yet, no ; it can- 
not, it cannot. We have found out what has 
become of Sophy.” 

“Oh, it is Mr. Martin ! ” exclaimed Rachel ; 
“ God bless him ! I knew he would find it out 


344 


HALF BROTHERS. 


some day ; and how shall we ever thank him for 
it, Andrew and me?” 

“ Hush ! hush ! ” said Margaret ; “it is too 
dreadful. Rachel, he sends you this letter, 
which Sophy wrote to you before she died, thirty 
years ago, and he says, ‘ Would to God it had 
been sent to you then ! ’ Take it away to read 
it : I cannot bear to see you reading it.” 

Rachel carried the faded letter away. She 
was an old woman now, with white hair, and 
eyes that were failing a little, and needing a 
brighter light than when Sophy had written that 
long letter. But she remembered Sophy’s hand- 
writing well, and tears blinded her dim eyes. 
Oh, what anguish of heart would have been saved 
them if this letter had but reached them thirty 
years ago ! It was the suspense of the long, long 
years that had broken Andrew’s spirit, and made 
an old man of him while still in the prime of life. 
Many fathers lose a beloved child by death, and 
they lay them in the grave, and go their way, 
and presently the sharp grief is healed. But he 
had lost her more cruelly, by that cruelest way, 
an unaccountable and mysterious disappearance. 
It was well to make the discovery of her fate even 
now ; but if it had only been made thirty years 
ago! 

Rachel read the letter slowly, gathering in its 
many new impressions vaguely, like one puzzled 
and bewildered. It seemed a confusion to her. 
Who could this Sidney be of whom Sophy wrote 
— this young man who had deserted her in a pas- 


MARGARETS CONFLICT. 


345 


sion, as it appeared, just the thoughtless passion 
of a young man ? Sophy’s temper had often 
been very provoking, and she freely confessed 
that she had provoked him out of all patience. 
Sidney % She knew only one man of that name. 

And he was Sidney Martin, her master, the 
husband of her idolized mistress. He was the 
rich man, the magistrate, the member of Parlia- 
ment, who belonged to quite another world from 
that lower world in which she and Andrew lived, 
the 'world to which Sophy had belonged. To 
think of him in connection with this young man, 
Sophy’s husband, who had deserted her, was 
impossible ; it was an unjustifiable liberty — a 
crime. 

She put the letter down and took up some 
sewing, as if she could think more clearly while 
her fingers were busy. But her hands trembled 
too much, and a crowd of memories came rush- 
ing through her brain. O Sophy ! Sophy ! how 
sad an end to come to with your willful ways and 
foolish fancies ! Dying there, alone, among 
strangers, who did not know what you were say- 
ing with your dying lips ! No hand you knew 
to hold your hand as it grew cold, and no voice 
you could understand to speak words of comfort 
as you went down, step by step, into the chill 
river of death ! Alone ! utterly alone ! 

Then she read the letter again. And now the 
name came clearly to her — Sidney Martin. There 
must be some other man, then, of that name. It 
was incredible that Mr. Martin, who had joined 


346 


HALF BROTHERS. 


them in their search and inquiry with such 
friendly sympathy, could have held the knowl- 
edge of her fate in his own heart. She thought 
of all his kindness to Andrew and herself — a 
kindness that had never failed. Yet — Sidney 
Martin ! And a secret marriage ! It was he, 
too, who had sent her this letter, and a strange 
message with it. If this could be true, what 
would be the end of it ? 

She made her way to Margaret’s room with 
trembling limbs and a sinking lieart. Margaret 
was still sitting where she had left her, with her 
face toward the window ; but it was dark, and 
the long range of mountains, that seemed only a 
little while ago the glistening boundary of a 
brighter world, lay pallid as death against the 
somber sky. 

Miss Margaret ! ” cried Each el in a voice of 
sorrowful uncertainty. 

Margaret stood up and stretched out her arms, 
and the two women clung to one another in a 
passionate embrace, which seemed to knit to- 
gether all the joys and sorrows of their lifelong 
affection. Rachel knew that her dreaded sur- 
mise was true. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

CAPTURED. 

That niglit, at Cortina, Sidney was watching 
in the hope of capturing his son. Philip was 
with him, concealed in a dependance opposite to 
the hotel, ready to intercept Martin if he took 
fright, or to pursue him if he made his escape. 
Phyllis and Dorothy sat in their dark room, with 
the window open that they might step noiselessly 
on to the balcony. 

Phyllis had not seen Martin ; and no descrip- 
tion given of him by Philip and Dorothy led her 
to imagine him in any way different from the 
peasants who inhabited the cottages near the 
little town. That he was rougher and less civi- 
lized did not for a moment enter her brain. She 
noticed these mountain laborers closely, wonder- 
ing which of them would be most like her un- 
known cousin, who so greatly altered her own 
future prospects. It was plain to her that Philip 
and Margaret were Quixotic enough to acknowl- 
edge the claim of this deserted son of a lowborn 
mother to his rights as the eldest son and heir of 
his father, but she was not sure of what Sidney 
meant to do. He might still listen to reason and 
common sense. But she began to wonder, with 
a sinking heart as she thought of marrying a 
comparatively poor man, how soon and how 

347 


348 


HALF BROTHERS. 


much would this usurper acquire a fitness for 
his distinguished position. 

To Sidney, the cheerful loyalty with which 
Philij) came to aid him to rescue his son was full 
of reproach. He felt, too, that Dorothy and 
Philip were taking the affair out of his hands, 
and that his part was almost a j)assive one, that 
of a spectator. These young creatures who a few 
months ago looked up to him as an infallible 
oracle and the arbiter of their lives, now stood 
beside him, nay, even before him, covering with 
the strength of their youthful hopes, and their 
certainty of success, the feebleness of his own 
doubtful and perplexed judgment. They talked 
of Martin as though sure of redeeming him from 
his ignorance and savagery, and fitting him to fill 
the position he was born to ; while Sidney could 
see in him only a man whose habits of mind 
and body were unalterably rooted, a monster to 
whom he had given life, and who was about to 
become his master. They, youthful and ideal- 
istic, with no knowledge of the world, and but 
little of their own nature, were ardently pursuing 
their object, blind to what he saw so clearly, the 
long^monotony of slowly passing years to come, 
when Martin, with his ingrained savagery, would 
become a daily burden, full of care and shame to 
all of them. If only he could save Margaret and 
his boys from that burden ! 

The long, silent hours of watching passed on, 
and Phyllis grew fretful with the tedium of wait- 
ing. Every quarter of an hour sounding from 
the clock tower made the time seem longer. The 


CAPTURED. 


349 


stars glittered in tlie almost frosty sky ; and the 
moon, now waning, threw a sad, white light upon 
the sleeping town. There had been no sound for 
an hour or more, when at last a stealthy, creep- 
ing footfall reached their straining ears." The 
two girls stole silently to the balcony, and leaned 
cautiously over the x)arax)et. In the dim light 
Phyllis saw a wild, half naked creature, bare- 
headed, with long, rough hair matted about his 
face, scraping together the fragments of food 
thrown out into the street for the dogs. It was 
a horrible sight to her, and she uttered a low 
scream as she fled back into the room, which 
startled his frightened ears. He was darting 
away when Dorothy called to him: “Mar- 
tino ! ” 

It was his own name that this white vision of 
an angel was calling ; and he hesitated in his 
intended flight, looking uj^ again to see if she 
was still there, and did not vanish away. 

“ Martino ! ” she said again in her foreign ac- 
cent, “ we are your friends.’’ 

“ Si, signora,” he answered. 

“Martino ! ” repeated a friendly voice beside 
him, and he felt a hand laid gently on his bare 
arm, “ we are your friends.’’ 

He turned round with a start of terror ; but 
the face he met was that of the young English 
gentleman whom he had seen a few days ago, be- 
fore Chiara died, and who had given him the 
silver coin, which he carried carefully concealed 
in'his rags. He knelt down again to him, laid 
his hands on his feet, muttering and mumbling 


350 


HALF BROTHERS. 


his recognition and delight. Philip glanced 
round to the dark doorway where his father 
stood unseen. What must he be suffering in 
seeing such a sight as this % 

“Get up, Martino,” he said, trying to raise 
him from his abject posture, “we are your 
friends,” he repeated, at a loss for words. 
“Father,” he continued in adow voice, “come 
and speak to him. You know his language 
better than I do. Oh ! if I could only make him 
understand how much my mother and I pity 
him ! ” 

Sidney approached his sons cautiously. For 
a moment Martin stood as if about to take a 
sudden flight ; but the sight of an Englishman 
alone pacified him ; there was no need to be 
afraid of him. They were very rich, these Eng- 
lish ; Chiara had always said so ; they could give 
him enough money to buy the right of building 
a little hut for himself in some place on the 
mountains, where he could keej) goats and sheep. 
He stood quietly, therefore, watching them from 
under his shaggy eyebrows, while Philip still 
held him by a slight yet firm grasp, of which he 
was unconscious, so light his touch was. They 
waited, both of them in silence, for their father 
to speak. 

But Sidney could not speak. He had seen 
Martin for only one moment before, when he fled 
past him from the infuriated mob that had burnt 
Chiara’ s hut over his head. 'Now he stood close 
beside him : a strongly built man, with thews 
and sinews of iron, yet worn looking, with 


CAPTURED. 


351 


bowed shoulders and stooping head, as though 
even his great strength had been overtaxed with 
too many labors and hardships. His squalid 
face, the almost brutish dullness of its expression, 
the untamed savagery of his whole appearance, 
were too revolting to Sidney. Here Avas his own 
folly, his own sin personified. He could have 
hated this monster but for the remembrance of 
Margaret. 

“Mr. Martin,” said Dorothy’s clear young 
voice from the balcony overhead, “ take him into 
the dependance, and tell him he must sleep there 
to-night, and you will talk to him in the morn- 
ing. See, I have some food in this satchel. And 
Philip Avill keep watch lest he should try to 
escape. I am so glad we have found the poor 
fellow.” 

“The signora says you must stay here to- 
night,” repeated Philip, as he saw Martin look- 
ing up at Dorothy, and listening attentively to 
her unknown language, “and to-morrow we will 
show you we are friends.” 

“Are the signori rich ? ” asked Martin. 

“Very rich,” answered Philip. 

“Will the signori give money to me?” he 
asked again. 

“As much as you like,” said Sidney, “if you 
will obey me.” 

“As much money as Chiara had?” he re- 
joined. 

“More,” replied Sidney. 

“Then I will obey you,” he said, with a rough 
laugh. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

A POOR MAN. 

But now that Martin was captured, what was 
to be done with him? Sidney found that the 
immediate direction of affairs was taken out of 
his hands by these young people, who had been 
but children yesterday. Martin attached himself 
to Philip, as a dog attaches itself to some chosen 
master, and followed him about, obeying all his 
commands with a doglike fidelity. He squatted 
in a corner of the room while Philip took his 
meals, and the next night he stretched himself 
on the floor of Philip’s bedroom across the door- 
way, as if to guard him. At Dorothy’s sensible 
suggestion the garb of a peasant of the better 
class was procured for him, and he put it on with 
an air of pride in spite of its discomfort. 

“It would be nonsense to dress him like you, 
Philip,” she said sagaciously; “he would look 
ridiculous. It must all come by degrees, -as it 
did to me. I was quite a wild girl when your 
father found me; and I know how miserable 
poor Martin will feel at first, especially when we 
ffo away from here. It will be like another world 
to him.” 

“We cannot go till Phyllis is quite well,” said 
Philip anxiously. 


A POOR MAN. 


353 


For Phyllis had been overcome by the shock of 
finding Martin such a monster, and by the ap- 
parent determination of his father to own him as 
his heir. She was keeping to her room, and 
filling Philip’s heart with dire anxiety and con- 
cern. Only Dorothy saw her, and to her she 
maintained an ominous silence. 

“I think,” said Dorothy, “that if he went to 
Brackenburn first, not to Apley, it would be best 
for him. There are so few people about, and the 
moors lie all around, where he could roam about 
just as he liked, and nobody to notice him. 
Brackenburn will belong to him some day, and 
he will grow accustomed to it. When he is a 
little more like an English gentleman he may go 
to Apley.” 

“I will suggest it to my father,” replied 
Philip. 

“ He will go peaceably with you as your ser- 
vant,” resumed Dorothy, “ and it is better to let 
him think himself so just at first. The sooner 
you start the better. But not with us ; Sir Sid- 
ney will take care of Phyllis and me.” 

“I cannot start till Phyllis is well,” he said. 

But in a day or two Pliilip saw the necessity 
of taking Martin away immediately. All the 
valley became acquainted with the strange cir- 
cumstance that Chiara’s drudge was the son of a 
wealthy Englishman, who had come to claim him 
as soon as he heard of Chiara’s death. Everyone 
sought an opportunity of seeing Martin, and of 
speaking to him. The richer people addressed 


354 


HALF BROTHERS. 


him in a half joking manner ; but the peasants, 
especially his old neighbors, paid him servile 
attention. The woman who had scorned and 
flouted at him as a i^ariah, when he dared to love 
her, haunted his footsteps. Martin himself 
strutted to and fro in the village street, ]3roud of 
his new garb, and bearing heroically the pain his 
strong, high boots gave him ; and the third night 
after they had captured him Philip found him 
lying dead drunk in one of the lowest inns in 
Cortina. It was full time to remove him from his 
old surroundings. 

Sidney accepted the plans proposed by Philip 
and Dorothy with a sort of numb pain. He was 
no longer worthy to be their guide, and they 
were softly yet unconsciously setting him on one 
side. The burden was falling on their shoulders ; 
and how readily, how courageously they were 
bearing it ! There was as subtle a change in 
Dorothy as in Philip, inasmuch as there was an 
undertone of pity for him in all she said and did — 
a pity that was taking the place of the i3ride she 
had hitherto felt in him. She was very gentle 
and tender in her manner, hovering about him, 
and volunteering her companionship when he 
was setting out on the lonely walks with which 
he made away his time. But Sidney felt that 
all at once, in the prime of his life, his career was 
over. An ever increasing sense of sei)aration 
and isolation crept over him : Sophy and her son 
stood between him and every other relationship. 
Possibly his public career would not greatly 


A POOR MAN. 


355 


alter ; his days in the city would pass pretty 
much as they had done. He would amass more 
money, and be thought well of as a rich ^man. 
But at home all was changed. His beloved son 
was no longer his firstborn ; and even Margaret 
must feel keenly that Sophy had been his wife 
before she was. 

The plan of traveling homeward in two parties 
was a wise one, for it would not do to subject 
two young girls like Phyllis and Dorothy to any 
annoyance from Martin’s extreme savagery. 
Philip, too, acknowledged the prudence of Doro- 
thy’s suggestion, though it parted him from 
Phyllis, who gave him permission to see her on 
the eve of his departure with Martin. 

She was sitting in a large, high-backed chair, 
covered with crimson velvet, against which her 
pale cheeks looked whiter, and her face more 
delicate, than they had ever done, and she spoke 
in a faint and languid voice, as if the exertion 
was too much for her. 

‘‘ You will not be long after me, my darling ? ” ^ 
he said anxiously. ‘ ‘ I would have given all I 
have to have saved you this sorrow ; and yet 
it is a comfort to me that you have been 
here. How you know all aboutHt, just as you 
have known all my life hitherto. There were 
never two people, not being brother and sister, 
who knew all about the other as you and I do.” 

“But, Philip,” she asked languidly, “what 
do you suppose your future life will be now ? ” 

“ Oh ! I must go into my father’s business,” he 


356 


HALF BROTHERS. 


answered, “ and set to work seriously. Or if my 
father would give his consent I should like most 
of all to walk the hospitals, and become a sur- 
geon. I should like to be a famous surgeon.’’ 

‘‘ Good gracious, Philip ! ” she exclaimed, 
roused by such a proposition out of her listless- 
ness ; ‘‘and am I to be a doctor’s wife? A doc- 
tor’s wife, only having the brougham when you 
are not visiting your patients ! And you would 
never be sure of going out with me. Perhaps I 
should not be in society at all ! ” 

“ Perhaps not,” he replied, “ but you will be 
my own Phyllis always.” 

“A fine compensation,” she said, pouting and 
shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t know what 
my mother will say about it all.” 

“ But your father ? ” suggested Philip, with a 
smile. 

She was silent for a minute, and her face 
clouded. 

“He will say I am less worthy of you than 
ever,” she replied gravely. “ Oh, yes ! myfather 
will be on your side ; he is as incautious as any of 
you. But I never thought your father would be 
so rash. You think you know me, Philip, but 
all you are doing proves that you are mistaken ; 
you do not know me at all. I could never, never 
marry a poor man, however much I loved him. 
And you will be poor.” 

‘ ‘ Poor ! ” he repeated, “ no, no ! I shall not be 
a rich landowner, but I shall have ample means 
for all your wants and my own. We shall be 


A POOR MAN. 


357 


poorer than my brothers, of course, but not as 
poor as yours. They have their living to get, 
and so have I.” 

“It is not all quite settled yet?” she said 
plaintively. 

“What is not settled ? ” he inquired. 

“ Nobody knows yet but ourselves,” she con- 
tinued ; “everything is not lost. No one can 
know unless you proclaim it. I have been think- 
ing all day long while I have been lying ill, and 
I see all the ruin and misery it will bring upon 
you all. The monster himself will be wretched ; 
if you wish to secure his hapi)iness you should 
leave him here. Taking him off to England 
would be ridiculous.” 

“There is nothing else to be done,” said 
Philip briefly. 

But he left Cortina in charge of Martin with 
a heavier heart for this conversation with Phyllis. 
The clumsy form and uncouth gestures of 
Martin, who refused any other seat than the box 
of the carriage, struck him the more forcibly now 
they were starting on their way to England. He 
looked a middle-aged man, scarcely younger 
than his father. Would it be possible to mold 
him, even by little and little, by the slowest de- 
grees, into anything like the form of an English 
gentleman ? It was too late for that. 


CHAPTER XLIY. 

SOPHY’S SON. 

Rachel Goldsmith heard the full story of 
Martin from Margaret’s lips as far as she knew it 
herself. She listened to Margaret’s description 
of the poor wretch, standing aloof from all his 
neighbors, and not daring to enter the church, 
or to join the procession in the gredit festa; and 
she shed many tears over the fate of Sophy’s 
son. But it did not once enter her mind that 
this unknown nephew of hers would usurp the 
place of the young heir, whom she loved with a 
passionate devotion. When Margaret began to 
speak of it she interrupted her hurriedly. 

‘‘Oh, no, no!” she cried; “his grandfather 
and me would not hear a word of such a thing ! 
It’s a good thing that our Sophy was married 
rightly, and that’s quite enough. That will sat- 
isfy Andrew and me. Let him come to us, poor 
fellow, and we will provide for him. Andrew 
has saved money, and so have I. It would never 
do, my lady, for Sophy’s son to live at the Hall 
in Mr. Philip’s place.” 

“But we cannot hinder it,” said Margaret, 
smiling somewhat sadly; “since Martin is my 
husband’s eldest son, he must inherit the estates 
entailed upon him. But, Rachel, it is not his 


SOPHY^S SOW. 


359 


poverty we must deliver him from, it is his ig- 
norance. He has never known what love is, and 
we must make him know it. He knows nothing 
yet of God, and we must teach him. We have 
to reclaim him from heathen darkness, possibly 
from heathen sinfulness. All his past thirty 
years have to be atoned for, and no one can do it 
as we can — his father, and his brothers, and I.” 

“Couldn’t Andrew and me do it?” asked 
Rachel. 

“ Ho you think you can ?” rejoined Margaret. 
“ My husband was guilty of the wrong ; who else 
can put it right ? ” 

“Will you wait till I can speak to Andrew ?” 
she asked again. 

“It can make no difference,” answered Mar- 
garet ; “ Andrew’s grandson is my husband’s 
eldest son.” 

But all the way homeward Rachel was ponder- 
ing over the way in which she should tell An- 
drew these tidings, and in what manner it could 
be managed that Mr. Philip should not be de- 
throned. Though Margaret talked little about 
it, Rachel saw that her spirits flagged, and that 
she was more sorrowful than she had ever seen 
her before. Margaret and her. boys filled all 
Rachel’s heart. In early days Sophy had always 
been a trouble and perplexity to her, though the 
sadness and mystery of her fate had made her 
forget all these cares. Sophy’s son was coming 
to be a still greater trouble and perplexity to 
her in her old age. By dint of casual questions 


360 


HALF BROTHERS. 


asked of Margaret at odd times, Rachel drew to 
herself a picture of her great-nephew which filled 
her with dismay. A man who could neither 
read nor write, who went about in rags, bare- 
headed and barefooted — above all, a man who, if 
he prayed at all, i)rayed to images ; such was the 
usurper who was about to seize Philip’s birth- 
right. 

The evening of the day when Margaret and 
she arrived at Apley, Rachel set off to tell her 
brother of Sophy’s fate. The little street, so 
familiar to her all her life, seemed to put on a 
strange aspect as she sometimes hurried, and 
sometimes lingered, along it, in the unusual 
tumult of her spirit, which was eager, yet afraid, 
to tell her news. At last, the small, low window 
of the shop, and the three hollowed stone steps 
leading to the door, were reached. The old 
journeyman, grown old and infirm in their service, 
was putting up the shutters, and the bell tinkled 
loudly as he went in and out through the half 
open door. She was just in time to enter and 
pass through the darkened shop unheard, to 
the kitchen behind it. 

It looked very homelike and cozy to her, much 
more so than the grand rooms at the Hall. 
Though it was summer a clear fire was burning 
in the grate, and its dancing light flickered 
pleasantly on the polished oak of the dresser and 
the old clock, and on the brass candlesticks and 
pewter dishes, shining like silver, ranged on the 
dresser shelves. Andrew sat in a three-cornered 


sopnrs SON. 


361 


chair inside the chimney nook, resting himself 
with an air of tranquil comfort now the shop 
was closed and the day’ s business done. lie was 
a hale looking old man, with a good deal of 
strength in him still, though his hair, which 
had turned gray thirty years ago, was now of a 
silvery whiteness. In Rachel’s eyes he looked 
little older, and far happier, than he had done 
thirty years ago. 

‘‘ So you’ve come back again from foreign 
parts,” said Andrew, greeting her cordially, after 
her sister Mary had kissed her again and again. 
“You’re welcome back, Rachel; but it’s been 
only a flying visit, not more than a week or so. 
I wonder the quality don’t get worn out with 
flying about like that.” 

“It was business this time,” she answered 
gravely, “not pleasure. You’re quite well. 
Brother Andrew? You’ve got no rheumatism 
such weather as this ? ” 

“Not a twinge of it,” he said. “I never 
reckoned on being a strong old man like this. 
Thanks to the folks at the Hall, Mr. Martin, and 
Mr. Philip, and Mr. Hugh, and Miss Margaret 
most of all. If ever folks mended a broken 
heart, they’ve mended mine, God bless them ! ” 
“Ay! God bless them,” she echoed in a 
tremulous voice. “Brother Andrew, do you 
often think of Sophy now ? ” 

“Often think of Sophy now!” he repeated; 
“ ay ! every day, every hour ! When you came 
through the shop, I thought, ‘ Suppose that is my 


362 


HALF BROTHERS. 


girl ! ’ She may come home yet, Rachel. Some 
night, when all the shops are shut, and the 
neighbors safe indoors, she’ll steal in and ask 
if she may come home ngaiii. If it wasn’t for 
thinking she might do that, 1’ d have quitted the 
old house years ago ; but I’ve stayed on for fear 
she might come back and find no home, and be 
ashamed of inquiring where we’ve gone to. I 
think of Sophy!” he murmured in a tone of 
wonder and reproach. 

• “ She would be a gray-haired woman now, 
fifty years old,” said Mary; ‘‘ we should hardly 
know her.” 

“Then you don’t give up the hopes of finding 
her?” asked Rachel. 

“Never!” he answered. “I’ve asked Al- 
mighty God thousands and thousands of times 
to let me live till I knew what had become of her. 
And I’ve pleaded his promises with him, and I 
cannot think he’ll disapi^oint me. I am sure I 
shall know before I die.” 

“But it might be best for you not to know,” 
she suggested. 

“But I chose to know it,” he said, a gleam of 
almost insane excitement burning in his deep- 
set eyes, “ I chose to know it, I did not leave it 
with God. I said, ‘ Let me know even if it kills 
me. Let me know if I go down to hell to find 
her.’ I say so now. Rachel,” he cried in a loud 
and agitated voice, “have you come to tell me 
something ? Have you found her ? Do you 
know anything about my girl ? ” 


soPHrs soK 


363 


He sprang up and seized lier hands in his own. 
They were both old people, with but few years to 
live, yet at this moment they felt as if they were 
thirty years younger, and in the early prime of 
their days, when Sophy had disappeared, and 
the trouble first crushed them. If she had 
opened the door and entered among them with 
her pretty face and saucy manner, they would 
have seen her without a shadow or touch of sur- 
prise. 

‘‘Yes, I have heard of her,” said Rachel 
breathlessly. 

Andrew fell back in his chair, and his withered 
face went ashy pale. He only cried, as if to him- 
self, “My God! my God ! ” 

“But, Brother Andrew,” continued Rachel in 
a forced, monotonous manner, “she is dead. 
Sophy died thirty years ago.” 

“ Sophy died thirty years ago ! ” he repeated, 
gazing at her with dim eyes, from which all the 
light had faded. 

“Very far aw’^ay, in foreign parts,” went on 
Rachel ; “and before she died — the very day be- 
fore she died — she wrote a letter to me, a long 
letter, that was never sent.” 

“Died thirty years ago,” murmured Andrew, 
as if his brain could understand nothing more. 

“ Rachel,” said Mary eagerly, “just sit down 
and tell us all about it. Have you brought the 
letter? Was she married? Who did she run 
away with ? Be quiet, and tell.” 

“First,” answered Rachel, “I want to know 


364 


HALF BROTHEBS. 


if you can forgive the man who j)ersuaded her to 
run away, Brother Andrew % ” 

“No ! no ! ” he exclaimed. 

“Not if he were a mere boy, like our Mr. 
Philip, who did not know the harm he did?” 
urged Rachel. 

“If he married her,” he said hesitatingly. 

“Oh, he married her,” replied Rachel, 
r Andrew’s white head sank into his hands, and 
the tears trickled slowly down his face. Sophy 
had been married. For the sting of his sorrow 
had been the dread that his child had lost her 
innocence. The tears he shed were tears of glad- 
ness and thankfulness. True, she was dead ; 
but he, too, would soon die, and he would meet 
her with no shame upon her head. He was not 
afraid of dying now, for the secret he dreaded 
had been revealed to him. Rachel drew out of 
her pocket Sophy’s letter, and laid it on the little 
round table, where a candle was lighted, 
r “But who did she run away with?” asked 
Mary. “If you know she was married, you 
know who she was married to.” 

“ Yes,” she answered, sighing heavily; “he 
was no older than Mr. Philip, a mere boy, with 
no thought of the harm he did. He’d been visit- 
ing at the Hall, and saw our Soi)hy, and he ran 
away with her and married her. It was Mr. 
Martin himself.” 

“Mr. Martin!” exclaimed both Andrew and 
Mary at the same moment. 

Across Andrew’s mind came the recollections 


SOPHY'S SON. 


365 


of the last twenty-three years. Sidney had seen 
and known all their sorrow and bewilderment ; 
he had seemed to share it ; he had diligently 
aided them in their inquiries, and all the time he 
knew ! At any moment he could have rolled the 
burden off their hearts. He, who had seemed 
their friend and benefactor, had been the very 
enemy they were seeking. The gloomy and fierce 
light blazed again in Andrew’s sunken eyes, and 
he raised his arm, trembling with excitement, 
and looked mournfully at it, as if he was stricken 
with palsy. 

“Would to God my right arm was what it 
used to be ! ” he cried. “ But I’m an old, worn- 
out, broken-down man, with no strength left. 
I’ve only strength to cry night and day upon God 
to avenge me. And he will avenge me.” 

“Hush! hush!” exclaimed Hachel. “In 
cursing him you curse those who are dear to us 
as Sophy was. You curse Philip and Hugh, 
and our own Miss Margaret. And you love 
them.” 

“Yes, I love them,” he replied fiercely ; “but 
not like my own girl. You don’t know what 
it is to have given life to a child, and see her 
life destroyed by another man. It tugs at my 
very heartstrings. Oh, my Sophy ! ” 

He dropped his head again so that they could 
not see his face. But his shrunk and trembling 
hands were clenched till the sinews stood out 
white and rigid, and his bent shoulders heaved 
with deep and bitter sobs. It was the treachery 


366 


HALF BROTHERS. 


of his idolized master which was burning his 
wrongs into his very soul. 

‘‘But he is punished more than you could 
punish him,’’ said E-achel, “for Sophy left a 
child behind her, a son, and my lady says he is 
heir in place of Mr. Philip.” 

“How can that be?” he asked, looking up 
with a puzzled gaze. 

“ Because Sophy was Mr. Martin’s first wife,” 
she continued, “ before our Miss Margaret ; and 
Sir John Martin’s estates in Yorkshire are settled 
on his eldest son. Sophy’s child is a man of 
thirty now, and my lady says he must be the 
squire when Mr. Martin dies.” 

“ Sophy’s son is my grandson,” said Andrew, 
after a long pause. 

“Yes,” answered Mary. 

“Then where is he?” he asked impatiently. 
“I want to see Sophy’s son. I must see that he 
gets his rights. My grandson will be the squire 
some day. But I shall not live to see it, and then 
Mr. Martin will cheat him, as he has cheated 
me.” 

“ISTo,” said Rachel, “Mr. Martin owns him, 
and they are bringing him home from the far-off 
place where Mr. Philip found him. But, Brother 
Andrew, it would be best for him not to take 
Philip’s place. Think of it ! You and me aren’ t 
fit to be the grandfather and the aunt of Mr. 
Martin’s heir. We shall have nothing to do with 
him ; he cannot come and visit us here in this 
little house, and we couldn’ t go and visit him at 


SOPHY’S SON. 


367 


the Hall. We shall all be upset, and he will be 
no more than a stranger to us, though he is 
Sophy’s son.” 

“But I shall be proud of him,” answered 
Andrew. “ I shall like to see him ride past the 
shop ^window, like Mr. Philip does. And when 
he lifts his hat and smiles at me, as Mr. Philip 
does, I shall say, ‘That’s Sophy’s son, my grand- 
son.’ Ah ! and Mr. Martin will be finely pun- 
ished. What is his name, Rachel ? ” 

“ They christened him Martino,” she replied ; 
“he will be Martino Martin.” 

“Martino Martin,” he repeated; “that is my 
grandson ! He will be squire of Brackenburn, 
but I shall never see it. I shall be dead before 
then ; we shall all be gone. But he will be a 
rich man — richer than Mr. Philip.” 

“You always said you loved Mr. Philip as if 
he was your own,” said Rachel sadly. 

“Ay! but this is different,” he answered; 
“this one is really my own fiesh and blood. He 
belongs to me, and I belong to him. I shall see 
Sophy again in him. Mr. Philip calls me ‘ Gold- 
smith,’ but he will call me ‘grandfather.’ As 
soon as he comes home, and has a horse to suit 
him, I will make him such a saddle as the highest 
gentleman in the land might covet. I long to see 
him — as fine a gentleman as them all.” 

“ But you forgive Mr. Martin ? ” asked Rachel. 

“Forgive him!” he exclaimed. “Forgive a 
traitor like him ! A man who pretends to be your 
friend, and comforts you for the sorrow he is 


368 


HALF BBOTHERS. 


making ! Forgive liim for stealing away my only 
cliild, and hiding my grandson away in foreign 
parts ! Forgive him all these years of grief which 
almost broke my heart ! Why should I forgive 
him % ” 

‘ ‘ Because you pray to God to forgive you as 
you forgive others,’’ she said. 

“.But I’ve never trespassed against God,” he 
answered, “as this man has trespassed against 
me, God Himself being the judge. Let me be 
for a while. Perhaps some day, when I see my 
grandson riding by with gentlemen like himself, 
rich, and prosperous, and happy, and, maybe, a 
member of Parliament, then I may by chance 
forgive his father. But I cannot do it now — not 
now. r ve a great deal to sum up and get over 
before I can forgive him.” 

Late on in the night Andrew Goldsmith was 
poring and brooding over every word in Sophy’s 
letter. He lived over again the years of distrac- 
tion, bordering upon insanity, which had inter- 
vened between Sophy’s disappearance and the 
return of Colonel Cleveland to the Hall with his 
daughter Margaret and her husband Sidney 
Martin. He called back the memory of the 
singular fascination Mr. Martin had exercised 
over him ; and his old, troubled heart was very 
sore as he thought of all his loyal friendship 
to the man who had so deeply wronged him. 
“And he was my son-in-law all the time,” he 
said to himself. If he had owned his marriage, 
and brought his son to his own house to be 


SOPHY’S SOJY. 


369 


educated as his heir, Andrew would gladly have 
kept in the background, content with an occa- 
sional sight of his grandson. But now he would 
spread the story far and wide. Mr. Martin, who 
had been ashamed of his lowly marriage, should 
be more bitterly ashamed of his treacherous 
secrecy. His love for Margaret and her sons was 
swallowed up in his hatred of her husband, his 
own son-in-law. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Nothing could exceed the rage of Andrew 
Goldsmith when he heard that his grandson was 
about to be taken to Yorkshire, instead of being 
brought to Apley. What measures he had ex- 
pected Sidney Martin to take in order publicly 
to acknowledge Sophy’s son he hardly knew. 
But to send him to so distant a spot, without 
any open recognition of his rights, was a step 
that filled the old man with suspicion. Sidney 
came back to Apley, but Andrew refused to see 
him, feeling that it was impossible to forgive his 
enemy, and equally impossible to control his im- 
potent wrath. Sidney passed up and down the 
village street daily, but Andrew sat no longer in 
his shop, for fear of catching a passing sight of 
the prosperous traitor, whom he could not punish. 
He would not even see Margaret or Dorothy. He 
held himself altogether aloof even from his sister 
Rachel, who was so completely on his enemies’ 
side. 

In a few days after Sidney’s return Mary told 
him that his grandson had reached Brackenburn, 
and that Philip was staying with him. His 
indignation and suspicion made him restless to 
see Sophy’s son with his own eyes, and to confer 

370 


BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT. 


3Y1 


with him as to the claiming of his rights. An 
attorney in the neighborhood, whose opinion he 
asked, advised him to go down into Yorkshire 
without letting the family know of his purpose. 
He told Mary that he was going away on business 
for a few days, and she and Hachel rejoiced that 
he could give his mind to business at such a time. 
They, too, were anxious and overcurious to see 
their great-nephew, but it did not occur to either 
of them that their brother should undertake any 
secret enterprise. By and by, when Martin was 
getting a little used to the change in his sur- 
roundings, Margaret intended to go to Bracken- 
burn herself, taking Dorothy and Kachel with 
her. But for the present all agreed that it was 
best to leave Martin to free and unrestrained 
wanderings about the moors. 

Andrew traveled northward with excited and 
extravagant visions of his grandson. He could 
think of Mr. Martin’s eldest son and heir only as 
being like Philip and Hugh — young men whom 
he had always regarded with mingled deference, 
admiration, and affection. He had been proud 
of ‘‘the two young gentlemen from the Hall.” 
This elder brother of theirs no doubt resembled 
them, though he was his grandson. 

His heart was full of tenderness toward his lost 
Sophy’s child, as passionate as the bitter resent- 
ment he felt against Sidney. It would be im- 
possible to say which was the stronger. His 
whole nature was in a tumult. The keen and 
profound anger he felt against Sidney when his 


372 


HALF BROTHERS. 


mind brooded over l‘is treacherous friendship to 
himself, alternated with a still keener exultation 
as the thought flashed across him that he was 
Sidney’s father-in-law, and the grandfather of 
his heir. He, the old saddler of Apley, insignifi- 
cant and poor, was still the grandfather of the 
future squire. He wished that Sophy’s son had 
been the heir to Apley, which was a flner place 
than Brackenburn. What a glory and a joy it 
would have been to pace down the village street 
and up the broad avenue to his grandson’s Hall ! 
Though this glory could never be his, his spirit 
was greatly exalted within him at the thought of 
his grandson being the owner of Brackenburn in 
the future. 

He walked the few miles between the station 
and Brackenburn, for he was a vigorous old man, 
and not accustomed to hiring conveyances. But 
he was tired by the time he reached the point in 
the road from which the black and white, half 
timber house was first visible. It disappointed 
him more now than it had done before, when he 
visited it on Philip’s coming of age. This old, ir- 
regular pile of buildings, with its many gables 
and the old golden-gray stone wall shutting it 
in, which so delighted Dorothy and Philip, con- 
trasted unfavorably in Andrew’s eyes with the 
massive Jrontage and mullioned windows of 
Apley Hall. It seemed more than ever a studied 
and suspicious injustice to hide his grandson out 
of the way in this solitary farmhouse. 

From the point where he stood the great 


BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT. 


373 


moors, putting on their robes of purple heather 
and golden gorse, could be seen stretching behind 
the house up to the horizon. It was early in 
July, and the midsummer sun lighted up the 
undulating ground, displaying every patch of 
bracken and of gorse, with the rough, jagged 
teeth of rock thrusting themselves upward every- 
where in ^their midst. To Andrew’s eyes, ac- 
customed to southern cultivation, the moors 
seemed a dreary and wild desert, fit only for 
tramps and gypsies to squat in. He could see no 
path across them ; the road on which he stood 
ran down to the house in the dingle, but stopped 
there. All the deserted region beyond was bare 
and trackless moorland. It seemed to check his 
exalted visions of his grandson’s glory. This 
place was the inheritance of Sophy’s son. 

But he would see him righted, if Sidney meant 
to wrong him. This deserted child should not be 
cheated of his birthright. He strode down the 
long road in the hot afternoon sunshine, weary 
and sore at heart. But he was about to see his 
grandson, and to tell him, if no one had yet told 
him, of the prosperous future that lay before 
him, of the riches that had been accumulating 
for him, of the place he would take in England. 
All his suspicions and bitterness did not prevent 
his troubled heart from beating with high hopes, 
or his aged frame from trembling with eagerness 
to embrace his daughter’s son. 

He approached the house with some caution, 
for in spite of his love for Philip he could not 


374 


HALF BROTHERS. 


shake off the misgiving that he would be willing 
to supplant his unwelcome elder brother. The 
high, gray wall which surrounded the house hid 
him from sight until he reached the double gates 
hung upon massive stone pillars. Beyond them 
lay the forecourt, paved with broad slabs of 
stone, and opposite to the gates stood the wide, 
hospitable wooden porch, which protected the 
heavy house door, studded with nails. Andrew 
paused for a minute or two, gazing through the 
iron gates. On the steps of the porch lay a man 
basking in the sunshine like a dog. He had 
kicked off his boots, which lay at a little dis- 
tance from him, and his bare feet were stretched 
out on the heated pavement. They were bruised 
and scarred, as if they had never been protected 
against winter frosts, or the piercing of sharp 
rocks. This man’s hands were even worse than 
his feet : misshapen, clumsy, frost-bitten, covered 
with warts and corns, one finger altogether gone, 
and his nails worn down into the hard skin. His 
face wore the same disfiguring marks of constant 
exposure to extreme changes of heat and frost. 
His front teeth were gone, and his skin furrowed 
with coarse wrinkles. His hair was cut short, 
but it was scanty, tangled, and matted. Many 
an English tramp would have looked a gentleman 
beside him. Andrew gazed at this strange figure 
with curiosity. Probably this man, if he be- 
longed to the place, as he seemed to do, for he 
was comfortably smoking a pipe, was one of his 
grandson’s foreign servants. Yet he looked too 


BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT 


375 


uncivilized, too savage to be even a servant. He 
onglit not to be lying there in front of the house 
— the stables were too good for . him. Down 
south, nearer London, no gentleman would put 
up with such a scarecrow about his place. But 
his clothes were good, though he had divested 
himself of most of them, and laid them under his 
head as a pillow. Martin must learn that such a 
rough fellow must not lie on his front doorstep. 

Passing through the gates, Andrew approached 
this wild figure with somewhat slow and hesita- 
ting steps. Ho one else was in sight toVhom he 
could speak, and all the sunny house seemed 
asleep, except this strange, uncouth man. But 
there was something in the sad, marred face 
which appealed to his very heart ; a dumb, pa- 
thetic appealing gaze, such as looks out of the 
eyes of a dog, and that seems yearning to express 
in words the feelings that lie forever imprisoned 
in his almost human nature. The eyes of the 
stranger, gleaming from under his shaggy eye- 
brows, looked into his own with a gaze that was 
familiar to him. It shook Andrew to his inmost 
soul. 

“ Who are you ? he asked hurriedly. “ You 
cannot be anybody I ever saw before. I am come 
to see Mr. Martin, Sidney Martin’s eldest son. 
Where is he ? ” 

The man rose to his feet and lifted up his hand 
in salutation, standing before him in an almost 
abject attitude. The skin on his bare arms and 
breast was tanned to a deep brown and covered 


376 


HALF BROTHERS. 


with short hair. He mumbled some indistinct 
syllables in reply, but not a word that Andrew 
could comprehend. 

“Who are you? what’s your name?” asked 
Andrew, raising his voice as if he fancied the 
foreigner was deaf. In another minute footstei^s 
were heard in the silent house, and Philip him- 
self stepped out of the hall into the porch. 

“Andrew Goldsmith ! ” he exclaimed. 

“ Yes, me, Mr. Philip,” said Andrew excitedly, 
“I’m come to claim my grandson, the child of 
my only daughter, my poor lost girl Sophy. I 
know all about it, Mr. Philip, and my lady her- 
self told Rachel. Why didn’t he come straight 
home with them to Apley Hall? What is he 
hidden away here for ? What are you going to 
do with him ? I am his grandfather, and have a 
right to know. Next to his father, he belongs to 
me, and his interests are mine. Why did you 
bring him here ? ” 

“Look at him, Andrew,” said Philip. 

Martin was standing a little way off, intently 
watching his brother, with such a look of faithful 
love on his face as an intelligent dog might have. 
Philip smiled at him, a sad smile enough, but it 
made Martin laugh with delight. So dreary and 
insane was this sound, as if Martin’s lips had 
never been taught to laugh, that it always made 
Philip’s heart ache to hear it. 

“No, no!” cried Andrew, retreating from the 
two brothers with an expression of terror, “ that 
cannot be my Sophy’s son ! No, Mr. Philip, it is 


BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT. 


3V7 


impossible. He’s a savage, a Hottentot I he isn’t 
my grandson. Why ! the poor fellow is almost 
an idiot. He can’t be my Sophy’s boy. Tell me 
you’re only playing a joke upon me.” 

‘‘He is my brother,” said Philip. “See! I 
will tell him so.” 

He said a few words in a language strange to 
Andrew, and Martin seized his hand and held it 
to his lips, covering it with kisses. Then he fell 
back into his customary attitude of abject sub- 
mission. 

“ Sit down, Andrew,” said Philip in a tone of 
authority. The old man’s face was pallid, and 
he was swaying to and fro as though unable to 
stand ; but he caught the sense of Philip’s words, 
and stretched out his hands like one groping in 
the dark. He felt it seized in Philip’s strong 
grasp. 

“ Sit here,” he said, drawing him into the 
porch, “and when you are yourself again I will 
explain it all.” 

It seemed to Andrew as if the hour of death 
was come. He had lived to have the desire of 
his heart, had lived to know his girl’s fate and 
to see her child with his own eyes. Now let him 
die. Not as Simeon died when he said, “ Lord, 
now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace.” 
He was about to depart in bitterness and desola- 
tion of soul, having seen that which he had 
longed for ; and behold ! the sight was a horror 
and a curse to him. There was a thick darkness 
gathering around him. Why, then, did he not 


378 


HALF BROTHERS. 


die? Philip’s strong young hand was grasping 
his, and his clear voice was speaking to him. 

O Andrew ! ” he said, “ I was coming down 
to Apley to tell you, and prepare you for seeing 
Martin, and then to bring you back here with me. 
He is neither a savage nor an idiot. He is im- 
proving rapidly, and by and by we shall bring 
him to Apley. But you would not have him 
there at present, would you ?” 

Andrew felt his heart beat again, and the dark- 
ness began to give place to the familiar light of 
day. He opened his eyes, and the ashy paleness 
passed from his aged face. Now he looked up 
into Philip’s face, that face which had been so 
dear to him for many years. 

“I will tell Martin who you are,” he said. 

But Martin seemed incapable of understanding 
it. He knew well that he had had a mother, for 
had not everyone about him, from his earliest 
childhood, given him an extra kick because she 
was lost in hell ? But that this unhappy mother 
should have had a father, who was still alive, 
was more than he could comprehend. He stood 
looking vacantly at the old man for a minute or 
two, and then crept away bareheaded and bare- 
footed to the gates. As soon as he was through 
them he set off at a run, and they watched his 
tall, bent figure scudding over the moorland till 
they could see him no longer. 

“Yes, Mr. Philip,” cried Andrew, with a 
groan, “ yes, you’re doing the best for him and 
me. But I shall never lift up my head again, 
never more.” 


CHAPTER XLVL 

PUBLIC OPINION. 

Andkew would not stay at Brackeiibiirn even 
for the night. He could not endure the sight of 
his grandson again, until he had readjusted his 
ideas and schemes, and had reconciled himself to 
his terrible disappointment. Philip drove him 
to the station, doing his best to comfort and 
cheer him, but he reached Apley the next day, 
after a long night’s journey, a broken-spirited 
and embittered old man. 

Though this grandson of his could never be the 
fine English gentleman he had been dreaming 
about, still Andrew was resolved there should be 
no infringement of his birthright. Though he 
could never attain to even a faint resemblance of 
Philip and Hugh, yet he was the eldest son, the 
firstborn ; and if the law of entail meant any- 
thing in England, it must secure the inheritance 
to Martin. He laid the whole case, as far as he 
knew the circumstances, before a firm of respect- 
able solicitors in the nearest large town, and was 
assured that if the next heir was of sound mind, 
there was no doubt that he must succeed to Mr. 
Martin’s entailed estates. But was he sure that 
he was of sound mind ? That was the question. 
The description he gave of his grandson favored 
an opposite conclusion. 

379 


380 


HALF BROTHERS. 


It was a question tliat Andrew could not 
answer satisfactorily, even to himself. Possibly 
the mind was there, but it was altogether unde- 
veloped. The life Martin had passed through 
was that of a cruelly treated brute, cowering 
under cold and hunger, neglect, and oppression, 
and hatred. He possessed scarcely more intel- 
ligence than an intelligent dog. This, then, 
would be the loophole through which Sidney 
would escape from the net he had woven for 
himself. He would evade doing justice to 
Sophy’s son by treating him as an idiot or a 
madman. 

Day after day Andrew went about the neigh- 
borhood, for a circle of ten or twelve miles, tell- 
ing the story of Sophy’s wrongs with a publicity 
strangely at variance with his dignified and melan- 
choly reticence in former days. He became a 
garrulous old man, ready to pour the history of 
his troubles into every ear that would listen to it. 
And the story was an interesting one. Many an 
old resident within some miles of Apley recol- 
lected the incidents connected with the mysterious 
disappearance of the saddler’s pretty daughter, 
and the morose distress of her father. How that 
the almost forgotten mystery was solved the 
solution proved to be more interesting than the 
secret. Andrew found no difficulty in gaining 
listeners. 

In these days public confession and public 
penance are impossible. Sidney had no intention 
to act unjustly by his unfortunate firstborn son, 


PUBLIC OPINION. 


381 


but he could take no steps to make his intentions 
known. He had made his confession, with secret 
shame and grief, to his own solicitors, and to one 
or two of his most intimate friends. The rector, 
of course, had been acquainted with every detail, 
and had looked more deeply into his heart of 
hearts than any other eye, except Margaret’s. 
But he could not defend himself from aspersions. 
A general election was at hand ; and Andrew, 
maddened by the remembrance of the eager aid 
he had given to Sidney in former times, redoubled 
his efforts to prejucSce his constituents against 
him. But on the eve of the dissolution Sidney 
addressed a letter to them, resigning his office as 
their representative, and recommending as his 
successor the son of a neighboring landlord. No 
reason was given for his resignation. 

This omission Andrew seized upon. Garbled 
statements of the recent events in the life of their 
late member of Parliament appeared in the county 
papers taking the opposite side in politics — state- 
ments full of venom and rancor. These were 
among the many penalties which Sidney could 
not bear alone, but which fell heavily on 
Margaret and his sons. The romance of Sophy’s 
life and death contained so much truth that it 
was not wise to enter into any contradictory or 
explanatory statements. The son of Sidney’s 
first wife was described as a helpless imbecile, 
rendered so by the untold miseries which he had 
suffered with his father’s knowledge. A demand 
was made that the guardianship of this unhappy 


382 


HALF BROTHERS. 


heir should be taken out of his father’s hands, 
and placed in those of the Lord Chancellor, as 
the legal j)^^of^ctor of idiots. A commission 
should be immediately appointed to inquire into 
the present condition, both physical and mental, 
of Sidney Martin’s heir. 

This blow struck home. Not only did Sidney 
suffer from it, but Philip and Hugh, who were 
now together at Brackenburn, whither Hugh had 
gone for the long vacation. Rachel Goldsmith 
was filled with indignant anger. Andrew him- 
self was dismayed at the storm he had raised, 
and the use made of his bitter comiDlaints by the 
“other side,” as he called those opposed to his 
own political views. He had not wished to play 
into their hands. Besides, he knew that whatever 
concealment Sidney might have been guilty of, 
or whatever subterfuges he might have been 
tempted to, his grandson’s welfare was safe in 
Margaret’s hands. That Margaret should swerve 
from the right path, however strait and nar- 
row, was incredible to him. 

There was one person, however, so deeply in- 
terested in these malicious suggestions, that she 
hoped they might be carried into effect, at least 
so far as the appointment of a commission to in- 
quire into the physical and mental condition of 
Martin. Laura was filled with anxiety about 
Phyllis ; it would never do for her to marry 
Philip if he was to be an almost penniless man, 
coming between two rich brothers. Margaret’s 
estate went to Hugh, and if Martin was sound in 


PUBLIC OPINION. 


383 


mind and body, there was no chance for Philip. 
But in case he was really an imbecile, of course 
Philip would succeed. She must find out the 
truth. 

She seized an opportunity when they were 
dining at the Hall with no other guests present. 
It was a summer’s evening, and after dinner they 
sat out of doors on the terrace. Phyllis, in obe- 
dience to previous orders, carried Dorothy out of 
the way. Laura began with a little trepidation. 

“We saw old Andrew this morning,” she said, 
“and he could talk of nothing but his grand- 
son.” 

Laura knew there were times when the fewest 
words were best, and she spoke these with an air 
of innocent frankness. 

“Yes, Sidney,” said George, “the old man is 
angry with himself at giving rise to these vexa- 
tious reports. Would it not be best to bring 
Martin here for people to see him for them- 
selves? ” 

“No, no; it is impossible,” answered Sidney. 

“But why ? ” pursued George. “ It is always 
best to face a difficulty as soon as possible. You 
cannot keep him out of sight forever. Is it true, 
then, that the poor fellow is imbecile? ” 

“Not at all,” replied Sidney. “The simple 
truth is that he is a savage. He 'has no more 
idea of our modes of life and thought than a 
savage has. His vocabulary is that of a savage ; 
at the most he knows less than three hundred 
words, and he cannot learn the English equiva- 


384 


HALF BROTHERS. 


lents of those. His brain is almost utterly un- 
developed, and his mind is almost as much closed 
against us as if he was only a dog. But there is 
no reason to suppose him imbecile, and, in time, 
he may yet learn a good deal.’’ 

“Is he strong in body ? ” asked Laura. 

“As strong as a giant in some ways,” said 
Sidney. “His hard life has made his muscles 
like iron. He can sleep out of doors amid snow 
and frost that would kill any one of us, and he 
can eat food that would sicken us. Yes,” he 
added, in a tone of unfathomable regret, “my 
eldest son is a savage and a heathen, but he is not 
an idiot. 

“And must he really be your heir?” asked 
Laura with a trembling voice. 

“ Certainly,” he replied ; “ he is old enough to 
cut off the entail, but until he can understand 
what that means it cannot be done, and that is a 
very complex idea for a savage brain. There is 
no ground for dispossessing Martin. Two of our 
most eminent mental specialists have been to 
Brackenburn, and they discover no mental in- 
capacity excepting that of an altogether unde- 
veloped brain. They found him more dull and 
ignorant than the lowest type of English laborer, 
but they attribute it solely to neglect, not to brain 
weakness. He may be unfit for his position, but 
there is no reason why his son should be.” 

“Goodness!” exclaimed Laura, aghast. 
“ You think, then, he will marry.” 

“Why not?” asked Margaret. “Nothing 


PUBLIC OPINION. 


385 


would tend to civilize him so much as a wife and 
children, if only we can find some good and nice 
village girl whom he could love, and who would 
consent to marry him. But no lady would be- 
come his wife.” 

“Of course not,” assented Laura ; “but what, 
then, is to become of poor Philip ? ” 

“Philip wants to become a surgeon,” said 
Margaret, smiling, “ and I am willing, even glad ; 
but Sidaey hesitates. I do not want my boy 
drowned in commercial cares, and dealing chiefly 
with money all his life, as Sidney has been. I 
do not think money worth the sacrifice. I can- 
not help believing that our Lord meant what He 
said : ‘ How hardly shall they that have riches 
enter into the kingdom of God ! ’ It is true. 
Tell me, Sidney, is it not true ? I shall be glad 
to have Philip out of the race for wealth. They 
will not be poor — Laura ; my boy and your girl. 
They will have enough to secure everything 
worth having — everything that tends to health 
and culture and rational pleasure. They will 
only have to do without superfluities.” 

“Philip a surgeon ! ” exclaimed Laura ; “ not 
even a clergyman to take the family living ! ” 

“That would be impossible,” replied Mar- 
garet ; “he feels no call for it, and he could not 
go into the Church for tlie sake of the family 
living.” 

“That would be a sin against God,” said 
George ; “ next to the unpardonable sin, if it be 
not that sin itself. Let Philip become a surgeon ; 


386 


HALF BROTHEBS. 


my Phyllis will love him as much as if he was 
the owner of Brackenburn.’’ ,4,^. 

But there were at least two persons there who 
doubted it, and with good reasons. A smile that 
had grown rare on Sidney’s face lit it up for a 
moment, as the thought flashed across him that 
Philip would soon see the real nature of the wife 
he had chosen, and that Dorothy would also ap- 
pear to him in her true light. Laura inwardly 
vowed that neither persuasion nor authority on 
her husband’s part should keep Phyllis bound to 
a man who entered the insignificant career of a 
surgeon. It would have been a knotty question 
whether Phyllis could have married him, even if 
he had entered into partnership with his success- 
ful father ; but she should never become the wife 
of a iDrofessional man. 

And Martin ? It was possible that Sidney and 
Margaret were exaggerating his deficiencies. 
Laura felt no doubt that they painted him worse 
than he was; it was Margaret’s habit to over- 
state any opinion she formed. If he was only a 
boor, why could not Phyllis civilize him? She 
might, in any case, keep her boorish husband in 
the background and still enjoy the distinction of 
being Mrs. Martin of Brackenburn. Before she 
bade them good-night she had constructed for 
herself a tolerable image of Martin, which might 
be quite easily tolerated by a girl like Pliyllis. 
She might still live to see her the wife of Sidney’s 
eldest son. 


CHAPTER XLYII. 

Andrew’s prayer. 

Philip and Hugh, with their cousin Dick, 
passed the long vacation at Brackenburn. These 
young men did their best to make a companion 
of Martin ; but he could not understand their 
friendly efforts. He was willing to accept Philip 
as his master, and to obey his commands ; but 
he could not, even for his sake, accept the 
shackles of a civilized life. To bask all day 
long in the sunshine, with as little clothing on as 
possible, to have a large plateful of food served 
to him out of doors two or three times a day, 
and at nightfall to steal quietly into some dark 
outbuilding and sleep all night upon sweet- 
scented hay, was his ideal of well-being. Any- 
thing more was irksome to him. 

Sometimes, in obedience to Philip’s call, he 
went with them when they were shooting on the 
moors, shambling behind them with his awkward 
gait, and seeing and hearing nothing, unless a 
far-off speck in the sky, all but invisible to them, 
caught his eye, and filled him with excitement in 
the fancy that it was a vulture. If they came 
upon the track of any wild creature, a track al- 
together imperceptible to them, he could follow 
it with unerring skill till they traced it to its 

387 


388 


HALF BROTHERS. 


lair ; then Martin laughed with an uncouth and 
cruel laugh, and with savage eagerness and in- 
credible rapidity the animal was caught, and 
killed, and skinned before their eyes. At all 
other times his face bore an expression of deep 
melancholy. He was content only in Philip’s 
close vicinity. As long as Philip was in the Hall 
he lounged at his ease in the sunny forecourt ; 
but when Philip wa« absent, as he was occasion- 
ally for a day for two, Martin grew restless and 
anxious, and moped about the empty rooms 
vainly seeking for his master. 

But this could not go on much longer. Philip’s 
life must not be sacrificed to Martin ; and it was 
not practicable for him to take Martin to Lon- 
don. 

Sidney had not yet felt courage enough to see 
his eldest son again, and Margaret shrank from 
urging him to it. He was greatly changed these 
last few months. The air of prosperity that had 
been wont to sit so lightly and so becomingly 
upon him, the happy graciousness of his manner, 
his felicitous speeches, his confidence in himself, 
and his successful career — all these had passed 
away. He grew silent, and cared little for his 
life in town, seeking more and more, though he 
felt her farther from him, the constant compan- 
ionship of his wife. 

It was late one evening, after all the shops 
were closed, when Sidney and Margaret together 
knocked at Andrew Goldsmith’s door. It was 
opened softly by Mary, and they stepped inside 


ANDBEW^S PRAYER. 


389 


the dark shop, standing there [while she stole 
back and knelt down at a chair just within the 
kitchen door. Old Andrew was at prayer, and 
as soon as Mary re-entered his quavering voice re- 
sumed its solemn petition. 

‘‘We beseech Thee, O Lord,” he said, “ to 
take under the shadow of Thy wings that poor 
child of mine, my lost girl’s son, who is now in 
sore straits and great trouble. He has no friend 
save Thee ; there is nothing in him to make folks 
love him. But nothing has been done for him, 
Thou knowest. The man that deserted my girl 
deserted his own flesh and blood. And he is no 
better than a heathen, worshiping stocks and 
stones. Let us see Thine arm stretched out to 
save him, and to punish that man, his father, 
who left him to perish, body and soul. Venge- 
ance, O Lord ; let us see Thy vengeance on him.” 

Sidney heard nothing more. It was a terrible 
thing to hear a fellow-man appealing to God 
against him. Margaret’s heart was melted with 
pity toward them both. If only either of them 
knew the infinite love of God ; if they could but 
realize how small a moment in their endless life 
the brief passage through this world was to every 
soul of man ; if they could only understand how 
much closer God is to every soul he creates than 
we are to one another — what need would there 
be to pray in this manner, even for Martin ? 

“We are come to answer your prayer, An- 
drew,” she said, stepping forward as soon as he 
had finished ; “not your prayer for vengeance, 


390 


HALF BROTHERS. 


but for your grandson. He is my husband’s son, 
and mine. We all care for him. My dear boy 
Philip is doing all he can for him ; and now we 
want you and Mary to help us.” 

“ What can we do, my lady? ” he asked, de- 
spondently[; ‘‘the past is past. He can never be 
like Mr. Philii^ and Mr. Hugh.” 

“Not like them,” she answered; “but do 
you suppose he is less precious to God than 
they are ? God makes no difference between 
them. Christ died for him as truly as for them. 
You are too much troubled about small things, 
Andrew. But you can help Martin. Listen to our 
plans for him. It is best for him to live at 
Brackenburn, because that place will always be 
his own ; and we want you and Mary to go and 
live there with him as master and mistress of his 
household. You will naturally care for him 
more than anyone else can do ; and you know it 
is not possible for us to go to live at Bracken- 
burn ; it is too far from London. We think, too, 
of getting somebody who will be a sort of tutor 
to him, who will teach him all he is able to 
learn.” 

She paused a moment, but Andrew did not 
speak. 

“You will make this sacrifice for Sophy’s 
sake,” she resumed. “Your grandson has suf- 
fered a great wrong, not altogether from my 
husband’s fault, and we must all do what we 
can to set it right. My husband did not know 
of the existence of this son.” 


ANDBEW^S PRAYEB. 


391 


‘‘Not know of liim ! ” repeated Andrew. 

“He knew only tkat Sophy was dead,” said 
Margaret. 

“But you knew she was dead ! ” he cried, turn- 
ing fiercely upon Sidney; “you knew it while 
you were pretending to comfort me, you 
scoundrel ! you hypocrite ! You made promises 
to me of searching for her, and making inquiries, 
and all the time you knew she was in her grave. 
God grant I may see you punished ! ” 

The impotent anger of the old man was painful 
to witness. His white head shook as if with 
palsy, and his trembling hands clutched the 
back of a chair for support. Mary ran to his 
side as if afraid of his falling to the fioor. 

“I am punished, Goldsmith,” said Sidney. 
“Do you think it is nothing to be branded, as 
you have branded me, with infamy ? But I have 
come to ask your forgiveness, and your aid in 
saving Martin from further consequences of my 
sin.” 

“Forgive you!” he answered. “I cannot, 
neither in this life nor the life to come. But Til 
do what Miss Margaret asks. I’ll quit my old 
house, and go away, and die among strangers, as 
my poor Sophy did ; and every time you go up 
and down the street you’ll see how desolate 
you’ve made my house. I’ve got a long lease of 
it, and it shan’t be let to anybody else. We’ll 
jDUt up the shutters and leave it empty, and 
every time you see it you’ll remember Sophy 
and my curse on you.” 


392 


HALF BROTHERS. 


“Andrew!” said Margaret, “you are casting 
yourself away, out of the light of God’s love, 
and all your path will be dark to you. You will 
cease to know him as he is ; and you will find 
how terrible he can be in his anger.” 

“I repent bitterly of my sins against you,” 
urged Sidney, “ and I own how treacherous they 
were. But, Goldsmith, believe me when I say 
that I am changed, that I could not sin against 
you now as I did then.” 

“Changed!” said the old man scornfully, 
‘ ‘ changed ! How can you show it to me ? You’ ve 
been found out ; and we are changed toward 
you. But I can see no difference in you. You’ve 
not lost your riches and your lands. You’re not 
punished in any way that I can see. Yes, you 
are a grand son-in-law for an old saddler like me.” 
“ Let us go away,” said Margaret sadly. 

She took her husband’s arm, and walked si- 
lently along the streets and up the long avenue, 
so familiar to them through many happy years. 
But now their hearts were heavy and cast down. 
The difficulty had come to Sidney which comes 
upon men whose outward life has been at vari- 
ance with the inner. There was no mode by 
which he could prove to his fellow-men the re- 
ality of the change within him. He had seemed 
to be a Christian so long that there was no way 
of manifestly throwing off the cloak of hypoc- 
risy. He must wear the livery of Judas to the 
end. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

A LOST LOVE. 

Philip rejoiced at being set free from an irk-* 
some and almost hopeless task. He had been 
absent from home for many months ; and though 
he had written often to Phyllis from Bracken- 
burn, her replies had been growing more and 
more meager and unsatisfactory. Her brother 
Dick drew his attention to the fact that half of 
Phyllis’s missives were written on post cards, 
and might be read by all the world. They came 
very near a quarrel ; Dick’s depreciatory tone in 
speaking of his only sister always amazed Philip. 

As soon as possible after his arrival at the Hall 
he hurried down to the Rectory. It was usual 
for Phyllis to be awaiting him at the Hall ; but 
after his long absence she probably preferred to 
welcome him alone. He had not seen Phyllis’s 
father and mother since he lost his inheritance, 
but he did not anticipate any change in them be- 
cause his circumstances were so greatly altered. 
The rector received him with more than usual 
cordiality and tenderness. He put his arm affec- 
tionately about Philip’s shoulders. 

“I’m pleased with you, my boy,” he said ; 
“ you are fighting a good fight, and coming out 
the victor.” 


S94 


HALF BROTHERS. 


Philip grasped the rector’s hand tightly. His 
mother had never seemed to recognize the real 
hardship of his position ; and his father made 
worse of it than it actually was. The rector 
spoke of it as a fight in which he would win the 
victory, and yet suffer some loss in doing so. 

‘‘You are a man now,” resumed the rector, 
“a man I approve of and honor with all my 
heart. It will be a glad day to me when I give 
you my richest gift — Phyllis.” 

“A richer gift than anything I can lose,” said 
Philip. 

Philip left the rector’s study one of the happi- 
est men in the world, and went away to the 
drawing room, where Phyllis and her mother 
were sure to be found at this hour of the night. 
He heard the voices of the boys in their smoke 
room, and congratulated himself on the chance 
of Phyllis being alone with her mother. It was 
just what he had hoped for. 

But Phyllis was so entangled and encumbered 
with some fancywork when he opened the door, 
that she could not spring forward delightedly to 
meet him. She sat still ; and he stooped over 
her and pressed his lips to her soft cheek, and 
then turned to kiss her mother, who also did not 
greet him with her accustomed rapture. 

“ How could you run away from your mother 
so soon after getting home?” she inquired re- 
proachfully. 

“Did you think I could keep away till to- 
morrow?” he rejoined. “My mother knew I 


A LOST LOVE. 


395 


was coming here, and she is not jealous of Phyl- 
lis. She knows I love Phyllis as much as her- 
self, though differently. I do not love my 
mother less because Phyllis is so dear to me.’’ 

He lingered on the name Phyllis, slightly 
emphasizing it, with a delicate caress in the tone 
of his voice. The color flushed her j)ale and 
grave face, and her sight grew a little misty ; 
but she went on with her embroidery as if she 
did not hear him. 

‘‘Now, Philip,” said Laura, “sit down, and 
let us talk sensibly. Everything is so changed, 
so shockingly changed by this sad discovery. 
Your father made a false step, and cannot retrace 
it ; but it alters all your position and your pros- 
pects.” 

“Yes,” he assented. 

“ I want you to look at it as the world looks at 
it,” pursued Laura. “After all, we are living in 
this world, not in the next, as your mother fancies. 
You are now comparatively a poor man ; you are, 
in fact, a penniless man, for you are altogether 
dependent upon your father. Formerly you were 
the heir, and no caprice of your father s, or any 
failure in his business, could deprive you of the 
inheritance. You were quite secure of the future. 
But now you have not a penny, either in posses- 
sion or prospect, which does not depend upon 
your father. And city businesses are so uncertain ; 
you may be rolling in wealth one day and a 
bankrupt the next. Suppose your father failed, 
he would be all right for his life, and Martin 


396 


HALF BROTHERS. 


would be all right, and so would Hugh. But 
where would you be 

Philip made no answer. His eyes were fastened 
upon Phyllis, whose fingers went on busily with 
their work as if she had heard her mother's words 
over and over again. 

‘‘So far as I can see,” continued Laura, “you 
are in a dreadfully precarious position — in such 
a position as would make an older man reflect 
seriously before he thought of marriage. What 
can you offer to a wife ? A most uncertain pros- 
pect ; possibly, even probably, absolute penury. 
Penury ! You come to Phyllis, and say, ‘ Give 
me your love, which is most precious to me, and, 
in return, I will share with you my poverty and 
troubles.’ It seems to me a strange way of 
showing affection. ’ ’ 

“ But am I in a different position to your sons, 
who have to make their own way in the world ? ” 
asked Philip in a slightly faltering voice. 

He moved his seat to the sofa on which Phyllis 
was sitting, and took possession of her hand, 
which lay in his, limp and listless, making no 
return to its warm clasp. 

“No,” answered Laura ; “ but they know they 
must marry girls with money. If Phyllis had 
a fortune I should not say a word. But your 
father refused his consent to your marrying a girl 
without a fortune ; you know that only too well, 
Philip. I am not quite so worldly as that. But 
Phyllis, poor girl, cannot marry a poor man ; she 
is not fit to cope with poverty, as I have done. 
I know the rector will not be wise enough, or firm 


A LOST LOVE. 


397 


enough, to refuse you as your father rejected 
Phyllis. But I am her mother, and I have an 
equal right to a voice in the matter. I cannot 
see her throw herself into life long difficulties 
through a foolish fancy that you love one another. 
You are both far too young to know your own 
minds.” 

“ I was wrong in saying I was in the same po- 
sition as my cousins,” said Philip, in growing 
agitation ; ‘‘you know that both my father and 
mother are rich. It is true I am not the heir of 
either of them, but they have a large income ; and 
I feel sure that if I desire it they will make me 
such an allowance as will provide all rational 
comforts and enjoyments to my wife.” 

“An allowance that must cease with their 
lives,” replied Laura, “and nothing is more un- 
certain than life. I do not wish to alarm you, 
my dear Philip, but your father is much, very 
much shaken by this unfortunate discovery of 
yours. You must not count upon him living to 
old age. I have talked all this over with Phyllis, 
and she agrees with me.” 

“No, no,” he said vehemently ; “you may 
make her say so, but I will never believe it ! 
Phyllis, who has been my little wife as long as I 
can remember ; Phyllis, who has grown up for 
me — whom I loved as soon as I loved anyone ! 
No ; she will never forsake me. She would be- 
come my wife if I had only the poorest cottage to 
give to her as a home.” 

He clasped her hand between his own with a 
grasp from which she could not free it, though 


398 


HALF BROTHERS. 


she made a feeble effort to do so. Then she lifted 
up her tear-filled eyes, and looked very sadly 
into his eager face. 

‘‘I never could marry a poor man,” she said. 
‘‘O Philip! why did your father own he was 
married to Sophy Goldsmith ? Nobody could 
have proved it, and nobody would have believed 
it ; and then, you know, there would not have 
been all this fuss.” 

“ Phyllis 1 ” he cried, “ you don’t know what 
you are saying.” 

He dropped her hand and turned away from 
her. These few words of hers were horrible to 
him. All that her mother said passed by him 
almost as if it had no meaning. Some time ago 
he had begun to doubt the disinterested nature 
of her affection for him ; but he had no more 
doubted Phyllis than he did the rector. But at 
this moment her worldliness was more frank and 
outspoken than her mother’s. There was an un- 
abashed openness about it that staggered him, if 
she knew what she was saying. But she could 
not know ; it was incredible that she could com- 
prehend the baseness of her speech. He turned 
back to her again. 

‘‘ Phyllis,” he said earnestly, “ tell me truly, 
do you agree to what your mother says ? ” 

“Quite,” she answered. “We have talked it 
over again and again, and I agree with her. We 
should have been very happy together, but now 
I can only be sorry for you.” 

He went away without another word, stunned 
and bewildered. The boys were still laughing 


A LOST LOVE. 


399 


and talking in the smoke room, and the rector 
was reading in his study. It seemed to Philip 
as if he was dreaming some vexatious and incred- 
ible dream. This was his other home, as familiar 
to him as his father’s house. He had scarcely 
known any difference between Hugh and the 
other boys, whose merry racket was in his ears. 
But now a sentence of banishment had been pro- 
nounced against him. He could never come in 
and out again with the free, happy fellowship of 
former times. It was many months since he had 
crossed the old tlireshold ; it would be many 
months before he crossed it again. 

He went home and told his mother briefly, in 
as few words as possible ; and she said little to 
him, for she saw his grief was too fresh for con- 
solation. Moreover, she was not herself grieved, 
and she knew it would be vain to touch his sor- 
row with an unsympathetic hand. Sidney was 
more pleased than by anything which had hap- 
pened since Philip’s engagement to Phyllis. It 
was a good thing for him to discover his mistake 
in time. 

“Let us go to London,” said Margaret, “ and 
make a home for Philip for the next three 
months. If we stay here either he will not come 
down, or he must meet Phyllis and her mother ; 
for we could not break off all our intercourse 
with the rector. Dorothy has never been in 
London for more than a day or two, and we can 
And plenty to do during the winter. And, Sid- 
ney, let us go and keep Christmas at Bracken- 
burn.” 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


WINTER GLOOM. 

Andrew and Mary Goldsmith left their old 
home in Apley, and went north to take charge of 
Sophy’s son. It was a great change in the lives 
of people so old. Instead of their small, snug 
kitchen, and their shop, with its outlook on the 
familiar street, they dwelt in large, wainscoted 
rooms, separated by long, wandering passages 
and galleries, through which the autumn winds 
moaned incessantly, and from the windows they 
saw only the deserted moorland. The caretakers, 
who had been accustomed to have entire charge 
of the place, remained in it as gardener and cook ; 
and a groom and housemaid had been hired for 
the extra work, caused, not by Martin, but by 
the tutor who had undertaken to teach him the 
bare elements of learning and the sim^^lest cus- 
toms of civilized society. Mary Goldsmith found 
herself at the head of this little establishment, 
not without some feelings of pride in the imj)or- 
tance of her position ; and Andrew was installed 
as master and guardian of his grandson. It was 
a great change from their homely life at Apley. 
Yet, with all the discomfort of the change, there 
was a lurking sense of pleasure in being the 
nearest of kin to the heir of the estate. 


400 


WlNTi!^ GLOOM. 


401 


On the other hand, Martin was a source of con- 
stant anxiety and mortification to them both ; 
but Andrew took the mortification most to heart. 
He loved his uncouth barbarian, who was Sophy’s 
son, with a very deep though troubled love. 
There could be no interchange of ideas between 
them, except by gesture : for Andrew was too 
old to learn Martin’s stammering patois, and 
Martin appeared quite unable to recollect the 
few English words his tutor tried to fix upon 
his money. The tutor, who knew Italian well, 
though he was not versed in the patois of 
the frontier between Italy and Austria, soon 
learned Martin’s very limited vocabulary, and 
also his narrow range of mental sensations. But 
between Andrew and his ’grandson there was no 
means whatever of communication by speech. 
The old man would sit patiently for hours watch- 
ing the dull, coarse face of the clumsy peasant, 
whose favorite postures were lying huddled up 
on the ground, or squatting on his heels with his 
knees almost on a level with his ears. Some- 
times he fancied his grandson responded to 
his wistful gaze with a gleam of intelligent affec- 
tion in his eyes ; and now and then Martin would 
offer him a pipe if he was not provided with one. 
There was a certain amount of friendliness in 
this act. 

Martin’s tutor conscientiously spent a regular 
number of hours in attempting to teach him ; and 
he did his best to make him sit down to the table 
at meals and take his food like other people. 
But Martin was both obstinate and obtuse. In 


402 


HALF BWOTHEBB. 


liis cliildliood lie had not been permitted to 
imitate the children about him ; and the imita- 
tive faculties continued dormant in his manhood. 

Occasionally, to please Philip, he had con- 
sented to sit down with him and Hugh to a meal, 
and tried to do what they told him, but for no- 
body else was it worth while to take so much 
trouble. He was learning, with the slow and 
weary progress of an adult, the difficult accom- 
plishment of writing, his crooked and frost-bitten 
fingers traveling laboriously over the paper, form- 
ing characters he did not understand. He was 
learning, a little more easily, how to read ; but 
here again his progress was hindered by his want 
of comprehension. For, wisely or not, he was 
being taught in English, and, as yet, English was 
a tongue without meaning to him. 

The best time for Andrew was when Martin 
accompanied him on the moors. The old man 
was still hale and strong, and could pass all the 
hours of the day out of doors, j)rovided he was 
not always in movement. Martin, too, was only 
happy in the open air, and he liked lounging 
about, sitting for long spells under some moss- 
grown rock, as he had been accustomed to do 
when he was tending Chiara’s herds. Like sav- 
ages, he w^as capable of prolonged and extreme 
muscular exertion when necessary ; but necessity 
alone could drive him to make any effort, except- 
ing when a wild impulse i^ossessed him to try his 
great physical strength. Usually he wms content 
to loiter about, with a pipe in his mouth and his 
hands in his pockets, the impersonation of slug- 


WINTm GLOOM. 


403 


gisli laziness. For hours together these strange 
kinsmen — the vigorous old man, with his hot 
heart of indignant love beating in his time-worn 
frame, and his grandson, with all his faculties 
and affections undeveloped — strolled about the 
wide moorland, unable to exchange a word, and 
communicating with one another only by looks 
and gestures. 

To Martin, all that had happened to him had 
the incoherence and marvel of a dream. Chiara’s 
death had first broken the melancholy monotony 
of his life, and immediately followed this extraor- 
dinary change in his circumstances. He ac- 
cepted it, but he could not comprehend it. He 
found himself supplied with all he wanted, with- 
out any effort of his own ; he no longer worked 
for many long hours for coarse food in scanty 
quantities, nor was he roughly roused from his 
sleep at the first dawn of the morning. ISTo voice 
spoke in angry tones to him, and no face scowled 
upon him. Yet he did not enjoy the dainty 
meals set before him at regular and stated inter- 
vals, instead of being snatched and devoured 
with a watchful, and anxious, and savage glee. 
He was called upon to submit to incomprehensi- 
ble restraints upon all his actions. Moreover, he 
was sensible that there was a vast difference be- 
. tween himself and these strange people who sur- 
rounded him ; a far greater difference than he 
had felt when living among the petty tyrants, 
whom he hated, but who were familiar to him. 
There had been a certain zest and enjoyment in 
hatred, which was missing in this new life, where 


404 


HALF BROTHERS. 


there were no enemies or oppressors. Besides 
this, though he had never consciously felt the spell 
of the mountain peaks among which he dwelt, the 
broad, wide sweep of the moorland, rising gradu- 
ally up to a softly undulating line against the 
sky, was irksome and painful to him ; why, he 
knew not. A deep, passive dejection fell upon 
his spirit, and drove every thought of his slowly 
awakening mind inward. There was nothing in 
him of the child’s spontaneous action of the 
mind outward. He had suffered from tyranny 
and persecution ; he was now suffering from nos- 
talgia, and utter weariness of his uncongenial 
life. 

The first day the snow began to fall Andrew’ s 
vigilant eye detected the tears falling down the 
rugged cheeks of his grandson. He ran out into 
the forecourt and stood still for the soft fiakes to 
fall upon his bare head, and hands stretched out 
as if to give them a welcome — the welcome we 
give to messengers from a beloved land. He 
looked down at the print of his feet on the white 
carpet, and immediately took off his boots, and 
trod upon it barefooted, as if with reverence of 
its purity. All day long he wandered about the 
moors, his face lit up with an expression that was 
almost a smile. Andrew, who did not care to 
accompany him into the frosty air and bitter 
north wind, watched him from a garret window, 
now taking long and rapid strides across the 
snow-clad uplands, and now standing motionless 
for many minutes, his bare head bowed down and 
his arms hanging listlessly by his sides, until the 


WINTER GLOOM. 


405 


snowflakes had covered him from head to foot. 
What was he thinking of, this poor son of 
Sophy’s? What did he remember? Was he 
really of sound mind ; or was it true, as all the 
country folks were saying, that he was a poor, 
witless innocent? Could nothing be done to 
arouse him, mind and soul ? Was there no way 
of undoing the wrong that had been done ? 

So the dark months of November and part of 
December passed by, and Rachel wrote that Mr. 
Martin and all the family were coming to keep 
Christmas at Brackenburn instead of Apley. To 
meet Sidney again, and stay under his roof 
almost like a guest, was more than Andrew could 
brook ; so he took himself away to Apley to 
spend a lonely Christmas in his old home. 


CHAPTER L. 


FATHER AND SON. 

Sidney had not seen his son since his arrival 
in England. There had been no necessity for 
doing so ; and he shrank from the great pain of 
coming again into close contact with him. But 
this meeting could not be avoided forever, and 
Margaret, who felt a keen sympathy with her 
husband while recognizing his duty toward his 
eldest son and heir, urged her plan of spending 
Christmas in Yorkshire. Nearly six months had 
elapsed, and she hoped that Martin would be in 
some degree reclaimed from his almost brute 
condition. 

For days before the arrival of the family the 
old Manor House was undergoing a process of 
cleaning and beautifying which was bewildering 
and irritating to Martin. Carpets were laid 
down on all the floors, and large fires were kept 
burning in every room. Flowers were blooming 
everywhere, and ingenious decorations of holly 
and ivy and mistletoe hung upon all the walls. 
His tutor was gone away for the holidays, and 
Andrew had disappeared. The small, stagnant 
pool of his existence was being stirred to its 
depths, and this fretted him. He did not know 
at all what it meant ; and on the day when the 
family were expected, when everybody was ten- 
406 


i'ATHER AND SON 


407 


fold busier than before, he wandered off early in 
the morning, and his absence was not noticed by 
the occupied household. 

It had been dark for an hour or two, when 
Martin shambled across the forecourt and into 
the porch on his return. The large glass doors 
which separated the porch from the hall were 
uncurtained, and he crept in without noise to 
look through them cautiously. The place was 
altogether transformed. There was a huge fire 
of logs and coal burning brightly on the hearth, 
with a many-colored square of carpet laid before 
it, and chairs drawn up into the light and heat. 
Great bunches of red holly and pots of scarlet 
geranium gave bright color to the hall. A 
woman, grander and more beautiful than he had 
ever seen, richly clad in purple velvet, sat in one 
of the high-backed chairs, and standing near to 
her was the English signore, who called himself 
his father. It seemed to his dull and troubled 
mind, as he stood outside in the dark, that this 
must be the other world, where the saints dwelt, 
of which the padre had sometimes spoken. 
Could this be the Paradiso to which Christians 
went after masses had been said to get them out 
of the Purgatorio ? There was the Inferno, where 
his mother was, and the Purgatorio, and the 
Paradiso. But this place was too beautiful to 
be anything but the Paradiso ; and these grand 
and beautiful beings were the inhabitants of it. 
He was gazing, with a vague sense of it being im- 
possible for him to enter in, when he saw other 
figures descending the broad, shallow staircase 


408 


HALF BMOTHEBS. 


slowly, side by side. The one was the gracious 
and radiant vision he had seen in Cortina, the 
other was his lost friend, his brother, his master, 
Philippo. 

His joy was the joy of a dumb animal on see- 
ing a beloved master suddenly reappear after a 
mysterious, inexplicable absence. He- burst open 
the door impetuously, and rushed in, covered 
with the snowflakes that had been lodging half 
frozen in his hair and beard for the last hour or 
two. He flung himself before Philip clasping 
his knees with his arms, and uttering uncouth 
cries of delight and welcome. For the moment 
he had relapsed into the savage again ; the 
heavy, clumsy frame, the ragged face, down 
which the melting snow was running, the bare 
feet and head, inarticulate cries, all seemed to 
show that no training, no process of civilizing, 
could make him other than the confirmed savage 
that he was. 

‘‘Margaret, I cannot bear it!” exclaimed 
Sidney, as if appealing to her for strength. 

“It is only for the moment,” she said softly ; 
“he is excited now. And see how fond he is 
of Philip. That is a good thing for him. Re- 
member how short a time six months is to undo 
the work of thirty years. And Mary Goldsmith 
tells me he has no great faults, such as he might 
have had. She thinks he is learning every day to 
be something more like other people. He is your 
son, Sidney — our son ; speak to him.” 

She had not seen him since the festa at 
Cortina, and she regarded him now with intense 


FATHER AND SON 


409 


interest. His face was certainly more intelligent 
than it was then ; the scared look upon it was 
gone, and it bore a stronger likeness to Andrew 
Goldsmith. There was even a slight resemblance 
to Philip, by whom he was now standing, and on 
whose face his eyes were riveted with an expres- 
sion of contentment. His hair and beard were 
cut short and trimmed, not hanging in matted 
locks, as when she saw him first. He wore a 
rough shooting suit, not unsuitable for Philip ; 
and the chief points of oddity in his appearance 
were his bare head and feet. But Mary was 
right, thought Margaret ; in time he would look 
like other people. 

‘‘Martin !” said his father in a raised voice, 
louder than he was himself aware of. Martin 
started and turned away from Philip, approach- 
ing Sidney with a cowed yet dogged air. He 
did not take his outstretched hand. 

“ Do you know who I am 1 asked Sidney in 
Italian. 

“Yes, signore,” he answered, “ my father.” 

They stood looking at one another. The one 
man was twenty-two years older than the other, 
yet they seemed almost of the same age. Martin 
was prematurely aged, broken down by persecu- 
tion, and weatherworn by exposure and want ; 
his father was unbent, strong, and vigorous in 
mind and body, still in his prime, and only dur- 
ing the last six months showing any sign of his 
fifty-two years being a burden to him. There 
was something so pitiful .in the contrast, that 
PhilijD walked away out into the porch ; and 


410 


HALF BROTHERS. 


Margaret and Dorothy clasped each other’s hands 
and looked on with tear-hlled eyes. 

“Oh, my father!” said Martin, speaking as 
if his soul had at length found an outlet in words, 
“ this is the Paradiso, and I am not fit for it. I 
know nothing. You are a great signore, and I 
am nothing. We are faraway from one another. 
My mother is in the Inferno ; Chiara and the 
padre said it ; no masses can be said for her soul. 
Let me go back to the mountains. I am not fit 
to live with great signori. My mother calls to 
me here,” and he laid his hand on his heart, 

‘ Come back, Martin, come back ! ’ and I must 
go. Send me back to the mountains.” 

Dorothy loosed Margaret’s hand and stepped 
swiftly to Sidney’s side, putting her hand fondly 
through his arm. He looked down on her with 
an expression of irretrievable sadness. 

“Listen to me, my son,” he said, speaking- 
very slowly and distinctly. ‘ ^ I did a great 
wrong when I left your mother, and I did a 
greater wrong in not seeking to know if you 
lived or not. I never knew you were born. If I 
had known it, you would have lived with me ; 
and now you would be as Philij) is, like him in 
every way. Look round you. When I die this 
house will be yours, and you will be a rich man. 
Do you understand ? ” 

“Yes, signore,” he answered, with excited 
gestures, “ I shall -have much money and much 
land. But now I have nothing. Give me some 
of the money now, and let me go back and buy 
a farm in Ampezzo. They will be my servants 


FATHER AND SON. 


411 


now ; nobody will pelt me with stones, and shout 
after me, and turn me out of the church. They 
will give me a chair there, and the padre will take 
off his hat to me. Perhaps they will say masses 
for the soul of my mother, when I am a rich man. 
Send me back, oh, my father ! ” 

‘‘Will you go away and leave your brother 
Philip?” asked Dorothy in hesitating accents. 
For though she had been diligently learning 
Italian for some months, she was afraid Martin 
would not understand her. He looked at her in 
amazement, and a gleam lighted up his furrowed 
face. 

“The signora knows what I say!” he ex- 
claimed; “ these other people here know nothing. 
I want to speak, and they stare at me. I am a 
fool in their eyes. But I can speak now to the 
signora, and to my father, and to Philippo. It 
is better now.” 

“Martin,” said Sidney, “you must stay here, 
in England, till you are more like an English- 
man. In a year or two I will take you back to 
Cortina, and you shall choose where you will 
live. But this house and these lands are yours, 
and they will be your son’s when you die. It is 
best for you to live in your own house and your 
own country.” 

“ Stay with us,” pleaded Dorothy, looking 
compassionately into his sad eyes. “Nobody 
loves you there, and we love you. I will teach 
you to be like your brother Philip. I used to 
live here, and I will show you places you have 
never seen. Stay with us, Martin.” 


412 


HALF BROTHERS. 


‘‘But my mother calls me,” he answered. 
“ They will say no masses for her soul if they do 
not know I am a rich man.” 

“I will send them money for it,” replied Doro- 
thy. “ Besides, it is a mistake, Martin ; your 
mother is not in the Inferno.” 

He listened to her as if she had been the Ma- 
donna he had fancied her when he first saw her. 
A heavy sob broke through his lips, and then a 
cry of exultation. The chief burden that had 
weighed upon his spirit slipped away and fell 
from him. The deepest stigma of his life was 
removed ; and in this he was like other men, that 
his mother, whom he had never seen, was dwell- 
ing in the same place as the mothers of other 
men. 


CHAPTER LI. 

THE GROWTH OF A SOUL. 

Dorothy gave herself up to the task of hu- 
manizing Martin with great enthusiasm. Her 
success was naturally greater and more rapid 
than that of the tutor or old Andrew. She un- 
dertook to teach him to read, and arguing it was 
best to teach him in Italian until he knew more 
of English, she began to teach him from a little 
book she had bought in Italy, one which was a 
great favorite of her own for its quaint and 
simple legends. It was the “Fioretti di San 
Francisco.” 

A pretty picture it was to all the other mem- 
bers of the household to see Dorothy seated in a 
high-backed oak chair on the hearth, with the 
tire light playing about her, while Martin, squat- 
ting on a low seat beside her, read diligently from 
the book on her lap, marking each word with his 
rude forefinger. Often she read aloud to him 
in hesitating accents, for the language was still 
strange to her ; but the very slowness and difii- 
culty of her utterance made it easier for him to 
comprehend. Sidney and Margaret themselves 
sat listening to the gentle and childlike beauty of 
these ‘‘Flowrets of S. Francisco,” and watching 
the kindling intelligence of Martin’s face. His 
soul was developing under Dorothy’s tender care. 

413 


414 


HALF BROTHERS. 


On the snow-clad moors, also, Dorothy made 
herself his constant companion. In all weather, 
except when the snow was whirling in a be- 
wildering network of closely falling flakes, she 
was ready to go out with him, and Philip, and 
Hugh, guiding them to places known only to 
herself. She could show them the winter dens 
of many a wild creature ; and Martin learned 
from her that he was net to kill their. Once she 
led them to the edge of a deep, narrow dell, in- 
visible from a little distance, and under the brow 
of it was a cave hewn out of the rock, a cave so 
similar to his place of refuge on the mountains, 
that Martin uttered a cry of mingled astonish- 
ment and delight. It was like a piece of home 
to him. 

Later on, when the others had gone back to 
London, Dorothy persuaded Sidney to procure 
for him, from that far-off Austrian valley, one of 
the curious, quaint old cruciflxes which stand at 
every point where crossroads meet. She had it 
placed near the entrance of this cave ; for, she 
said, if it awoke a thought, or gave him a glimmer 
of religious light, it was right for him to have it. 
When he came upon it first, unexpectedly, he 
threw himself on his knees before it, and burst 
into a passion of tears. It was a symbol familiar 
to him from his earliest days ; the only place of 
refuge, where, if he could reach it, he was safe 
from the blows of his tyrants. 

So evident was Martin’s rapid development, 
that Margaret decided to remain with Dorothy 
after Sidney and Philip had returned to London. 


THE GROWTH OF A SOUL. 


415 


She was deeply interested in this growth of a 
soul under her own eyes. Martin was learning 
to make broken sentences in English ; and she 
marked his progress with constantly increasing 
pleasure in seeing him overcome difficulties. 

To Martin these winter months were less weari- 
some than the summer and autumn had been. 
The snow made the moors amore familiar ground, 
and in these long, dark afternoons, if Dorothy 
was out of the way, he could creep into the 
kitchen, and crouch down in the chimney nook 
smoking a pipe, undisturbed by the servants, who 
were still busy at their work. Margaret and 
Dorothy sat chiefly in the great hall, which Mar- 
tin liked next best to the kitchen ; large screens 
were drawn round the hearth, and huge fires kept 
burning, and there Martin would lie on the warm 
bearskins, with Dorothy’s dogs around him, 
while she read the “ Fioretti di San Francisco.” 
Most things were irksome to him still ; he could 
never wear the shackles of civilization easily. 
But he was changing and developing. By and 
by they would reap the harvest of the seed they 
vrere sowing. 

The Easter holidays brought back Philip for a 
few days. In his eyes the transformation was 
marvelous. Martin had submitted to wearing 
boots and a hat ; at any rate, when he went out 
with Dorothy. He sat down with them to their 
meals, and could even make his wants known to 
the servants in intelligible words. He was learn- 
ing to ride, and he was willing to sit in the car- 
riage quietly when they drove to the nearest 


416 


HALF BROTHERS. 


town. His eyes followed Dorothy, and lie was 
obedient to her slightest sign. He watched her 
as if to see if he displeased her in any way. 
When she looked at him his dull face brightened 
with a rare smile, which had a strange and pa- 
thetic attraction in it, like a sudden and transient 
gleam of sunshine on a dreary, wintry day. The 
doglike allegiance he had displayed toward 
Philip was jilainly transferred to her. 

Was there any touch of jealousj^ in the uneasi- 
ness which Philip felt at this new phase of his 
brother’s character? A vague, indefinable ap- 
prehension of some new danger took hold of him 
at the sight of this constant comxianionship be- 
tween Martin and Dorothy. He recognized in 
his own mind that Martin was still a young man, 
and that there was a simple charm about Dorothy 
that few men of any rank in life could be indif- 
ferent to. Was Martin too dense a barbarian to 
feel it ? 

Though more civilized in other respects, Mar- 
tin had not yet learned to sleep before he was 
sleepy. His hours of slumber were still as 
irregular as his hours of eating had been at first. 
Late one night, when all the rest of the household 
were long ago asleep, Philip found him on the 
hearth in the hall, sitting on his low stool beside 
Dorothy’s chair. His deep-set eyes were glow- 
ing under his shaggy eyebrows like the embers 
on the hearth. 

“ My brother,” he said, as Philip stood look- 
ing down at him, ‘‘tell me, am I now a rich 
English signore like the other signori ? ” 


THE GROWTH OF A SOUL. 


417 


“Of course,” answered Philip, about to 
sit down in Dorothy’s chair ; but Martin mo- 
tioned him away, and drew another seat for- 
ward. 

“ This belongs to her, my signorina,” he said ; 
“it is not for you or for me.” 

“Why not?” asked Philip, half laughing. 
“ She is only a girl like other girls.” 

Martin made no answer, but repeated “ like 
other girls ” under his breath, as if it was a new 
idea to him. 

“ My brother,” he resumed, after a pause, 
“ when I was poor, without a penny, long ago, 
there was a girl I loved. When a man loves a 
girl he wants her for his wife. I wanted this girl 
to be my wife, but she spat at me.” 

“ I am glad you did not marry her, Martin,” 
said Philip, thinking how far worse it would 
have been if he had discovered his brother with 
a wife and children. 

“She wouldn’t spit at me now,” he continued 
proudly. “ I am a rich signore now, and I should 
laugh at her being my wife. She is down there, 
in the mud. But, my brother, listen to me. 
You say my signorina is a girl like other girls, 
and I am a rich signore. Would she laugh at 
me if I love her and want her to be my wife, like 
the girl I loved long ago ? ” 

For a minute or two anger and a strong feel- 
ing of repulsion kept Philip silent.. It was 
too monstrous to think of patiently. This rude 
peasant, this scarcely reclaimed savage, to be 
lifting up his eyes to tlie sweet English girl, who 


418 


HALF BROTHEBS. 


had only stooped to civilize him out of the pure 
compassion of her heart ! But the feeling died 
out as quickly as it had been kindled. It was 
possible for Martin to love her, and, if so, how 
much he would have to suffer ! 

‘‘ She would laugh at me,’’ said Martin in 
tones of the deepest and saddest conviction ; 

she would not look at me. See, I am a dog to 
her. She would turn her face away from me, 
and never look at me again. She is so far away 
above me, but you are close to her. You are 
like her, very grand, and very beautiful, and 
very clever. I am down, down in the mud. I 
cannot learn your ways ; they are too hard for 
me. Oh, my brother ! if I was like you, my sig- 
norina would love me and be my wife. 

Philip, looking down at the seared and melan- 
choly face of his unfortunate brother, said to 
himself that this might have been true. If 
Martin had been trained and educated as he him- 
self had been he would have been a suitable hus- 
band for Dorothy, and what would please his 
father and mother more than to have her for their 
daughter ? 

“ She is like the Madonna to me,” said Martin 
slowly and hesitatingly, as if searching through 
his brain for suitable words to express the 
thoughts pressing busily into it ; “ Madonna. 
I see her all day, and at night I cannot sleep. I 
sit all night on the mat at her door watching, 
listening. I do not sleep, but I am happy.” 

“You must never tell her that,” replied 
Philip ; “it would make her wery unhai3py.” 


TUB OUOWTH OF A SOUL. 


419 


‘‘I will never tell her, my brother,’’ he 
answered submissively; “she is too high above 
me. She is like an angel, and I am a dog. That 
is true. I am nothing ; only a rich man. But I 
will give her all my riches — this house, these 
lands. They shall be hers, not mine.” 

“But you are not a rich. man till your father 
dies,” explained Philip ; “they belong to him as 
long as he lives, and then they will belong to you 
as long as you live, but you can never give them 
away. They will be kept for your eldest son. 
It would be impossible for you to give any of 
them to Dorothy.” 

“ It is a lie, then,” he said ; “ it is a lie. I am 
not a rich man. They are of no good to me, this 
house and these lands. It would be better for 
me to have a farm of my own in Ampezzo, and 
marry a woman there. I did not dare to think 
the signorina would be my wife ; but if I could 
give her this house and these lands, and live near 
her, where I could see her every day, I could be 
happy, perhaps, here in this strange country, 
though I do not know what the i)eople say. I 
am not happy in Ampezzo ; they curse me and 
throw stones at me. I am not happy here in 
these clothes, and this great house, and these fine 
rooms. Let me be a servant ; your servant, or 
the signorina’ s ; then I might be happy.” 

“That could never be,” said Philip pityingly. 

“That is what I am fit for,” urged Martin. 
“ Take me away from here; make me work hard. 
Say to me : ‘ Martin, clean my horse ; ’ ‘ Martin, 
do this ; ’ ‘ Martin, do that,’ like Chiara did, 


420 


HALF BROTHERS. 


The days would not be long then, and I should 
sleep sound at night. I want to be tired out, my 
brother. See, I am very strong ; my arms and 
legs are strong; and I sit all day in a chair smok- 
ing a pipe, and all they tell me to do is, ‘ Read a 
little book, signore,’ or, ‘Learn a little English,’ 
or, ‘Let me teach you how to write.’ Only my 
signorina says : ‘ Let us go out on the moors, 
Martin.’ But she is not big and strong like me, 
and I walk like a girl beside her, for fear she 
should grow tired. I feel like a wolf shut up in 
a stable and fastened by a chain. Make me 
work hard like a servant, or let me go back to 
Ampezzo.” 

Philip let his hand fall gently on Martin’s 
shoulder, and he turned and kissed it — the 
smooth, well formed hand, strong and muscular, 
yet as finely molded as a woman’s. Martin 
stretched out his own knotted and deformed 
hands, and looked at them, as he had never 
done before, in the fire light, with a half laugh and 
a half groan. Since Philip’s arrival this time he 
had become more conscious of the vast difference 
between himself and his brother. He saw his 
own uncouthness and ugliness as they must ap- 
pear in Dorothy’s eyes. His close watchfulness 
of her had betrayed to him how different was 
the expression of her face when she was talking 
to him or to Philip. He had seen a happy light 
in her eyes when Philip was beside her, or even 
when she caught the sound of his voice about the 
house. These two, thought Martin humbly, were 


TEE GROWTH OF A SOUL. 


421 


fit for each other. Dorothy would be Philip’s 
wife, not his. 

“Yes, my brother,” he said, speaking his last 
thought aloud, “ my signorina loves you, and she 
will be your wife.” 

“Martin,” exclaimed Philip, rising hastily, 
“ you must never say such a word as that to me 
again.” 

He left him in solitary possession of the great 
hall ; but looking out of his own room an hour 
later, he saw Martin stretched like a dog across 
the threshold of Dorothy’s door. 


CHAPTER LII. 
lauka’s doubts. 

Philip could not sleep, so great was his agita- 
tion. This conversation, the first Martin had 
ever held with anyone, filled him with consterna- 
tion, almost to dismay. He had spoken to 
Dorothy of his delight over Martin’s awakening 
soul, the soul of a child expanding under her 
influence, and a lovely expression of gladness had 
lit up the girl’s face. But it had been a man’s 
soul that was developing, not a child’s. They 
had none of them thought of that. Martin was 
a man whose natural affections, so long thwarted 
and disappointed, were ready to flow swiftly into 
the first open channel. But to love Dorothy ! 
If it had not been for his lifelong love for Phyllis, 
Philip would have loved Dorothy himself. How 
sweet and simple she was! how true! There 
was a fresh and innocent, almost a rustic charm 
about her which contrasted strongly with Phyllis’s 
cultivated attractiveness. Philip, in his heart- 
sickness at Phyllis’s worldliness, was open-eyed 
to Dorothy’s unconscious disregard to custom 
and fashion. She valued the world as his mother 
valued it. With this thought there flashed across 
his mind an 'idea that brought terror with it. 
So unconventional was Dorothy that outward 
culture would not have as much value in her 


423 


LAURA'S DOUBTS. 


423 


sight as it had in his own. Moreover, there was a 
passion in her, as in his mother, for self-sacrifice, 
an absolute, unappeasable hunger to be of service 
to her fellow-creatures. Was it quite impossible 
that after a while Dorothy might not become 
Martin’s wife? He vehemently assured himself 
that it was impossible ; but the question tor- 
mented him. It was already a marvelous change 
that had been wrought on Martin. Yet he felt an 
unutterable horror at the thought, and for the 
first time a bitter repugnance arose in his heart 
against his unhappy elder brother. He might 
take the estate, that birthright, which had 
appeared to be his own through all these years. 
But he must not think of Dorothy. What could 
this repugnance mean ? If he had not loved 
Phyllis so ardently and constantly, he would 
have said he was in love with Dorothy himself. 
But it was only a few months since all Apley, 
Dorothy also, were witnesses of his rejected love 
and bitter disappointment. Only a few months ? 
They seemed like years ! He had been deceived 
in Phyllis, of course ; the Phyllis whom he loved 
was chiefly a creature of his imagination ; there 
had never been such a being. Dorothy was nearer 
his ideal than Phyllis had ever been, but he 
could not tell her so when she knew how pas- 
sionate had been his mistaken love for 
Phyllis. 

Early in the morning he sought a private 
interview with his mother, letting Dorothy go 
off on to the moors alone with Martin. Margaret 
and he watched them walking side by side. Mar- 


424 


HALF BROTHERS. 


tin’s bowed-down head turned attentively toward 
her. 

“It is a wonderful change,” remarked 
Margaret ; “we have not wasted these last four 
months, have we, Philip ?” 

“ Mother,” he said abruptly, “ suppose Martin 
has fallen in love with Dorothy! ” 

Margaret’s eyes met his own for a moment, 
and then followed the receding figures till they 
were nearly lost to sight. The short silence 
seemed intolerable to him. 

“Poor fellow!” she said in a tone of exqui- 
site pity, “that might be, and it would be an- 
other misfortune for him. I believe his nature 
is a fine one, full of possibilities of nobleness. 
But he has had no chance hitherto ; and if this 
is true his last hope is gone.” 

“Dorothy could not marry him!” exclaimed 
Philip. 

“She would not marry him,” said Margaret 
sadly ; “if she would she could indeed do more 
for him than any other human being can. If he 
loves her that will partly account for his rapid de- 
velopment. There is no educator like love.” 

“But, mother,” he cried, “Martin can never 
be anything but an ignorant, superstitious peas- 
ant. There can be no real culture for him. He 
can never be a gentleman. He will not be as 
well educated as our lodge keeper.” 

“I suppose he will always be ignorant of what 
we call knowledge,” she answered, “ but he need 
not remain superstitious. The light of God can 
shine into his heart as fully as into ours. He be- 


LAURA'S DOUBTS. 


425 


gins to realize that we love him ; and what is 
onr love but single drops from the unfathomable 
ocean of God’s love ? As soon as he knows that 
God loves him, he will be wiser than the wisest 
man of the world.” 

“Then you would not oppose Dorothy marry- 
ing him ? ” he asked indignantly. 

“Not if she would do it,” she replied. “I 
would heap upon Martin the best and worthiest 
of all the blessings of this life, if that would 
atone for the loss of all his childhood and youth. 
Think ,'of it, my Philip. While you occupied 
his place, he was enduring the want of all things. 
We cannot do too much, or give up too much, for 
him. But no thought of loving him in that way 
is in Dorothy’s mind.” 

“ Thank God !” he said fervently. 

Margaret smiled, and held out her hand to him 
fondly. A moment ago the thought had flashed 
through his brain that his mother was too high- 
minded and too visionary for this life. But the 
clear, steadfast light in her eyes, and the smile 
playing about her lips, were not those of a per- 
son rapt away from all earthly interests. 

“No, Philip,” she said, “Dorothy looks upon 
Martin simply as a brother, one whose sad lot 
she can brighten. I cannot wish it otherwise, 
though I am grieved for him. Tell me all you 
think about it.” 

He repeated almost verbally the conversation 
he had held with Martin the night before ; and 
Margaret listened with a troubled face. 

“Dorothy ought not to stay here,” he said. 


426 


HALF BBOTHEBS. 


“It is a pity,” she answered, sighing, “ for it 
increases our difficulties a hundredfold. I was 
hoping the time Avoiild come when we could take 
Martin to London, and introduce him there to 
such of your father’s old friends who ought to 
know him, and who could understand the whole 
story. But it will not do for Dorothy to stay 
here much longer ; and Martin would not im- 
prove alone with me, if I could stay, as he does 
with her. 0 Philip ! I could almost wish, for 
your father’s sake, that she could care for 
Martin.” 

“ Impossible ! ” he ejaculated. 

“Yes, you wise, blind boy,” she replied, “it 
is impossible. If Martin could be trained into a 
perfect gentleman, it would still be impossible.” 

“ Mother ! ” he exclaimed, the color mounting 
to his forehead as he turned away from her smil- 
ing eyes, “it is so short a time since Phyllis 
jilted me.” 

“If I am not mistaken,” said Margaret, 
“ Dorothy loved you before that.” 

“Loved me!” he repeated, “why! I was 
nothing to her. I had no eyes for her before 
you came to Venice ; I saw no one but Phyllis. 
I could never presume to tell her I loved her, 
when she knows how infatuated I was with 
Phyllis.” 

“ I judge only by appearances,” said his 
mother, “but your father thinks as I do ; and 
nothing could please your father more. She is 
already as dear to him as his own child. He has 
suffered more than words can tell, and greatly 


LAUUjVS doubts. 


427 


on your account, but he will feel that you have 
not lost all if you win Dorothy as your wife. I 
think the estate well lost if it saved you from an 
unhappy marriage.” 

“Oh, mother,” he cried, “ what a fool I was ! ” 

“To be sure,” she said smiling. 

“But now I could see Phyllis again to-mor- 
row,” he went on, “and not feel grieved. Let 
us go back to Apley ; at least you and Dorothy. 
You left home on my account ; but it is too far 
away here. It would be better for my father to 
have you at home again, or in London. Come 
home again, mother.” 

“Poor Martin!” she said, with a troubled 
face. 

But as she thought over what Philip had told 
her, Margaret felt that it was time to separate 
Martin from Dorothy. She took Rachel Gold- 
smith into her confidence, and she agreed with 
her. It seemed a preposterous thing to Rachel 
that Martin should deprive Philip of his birth- 
right, and that so much importance should be 
attached to his education at so late a period of 
his life. 

“The best thing for him,” she said, “would 
be to set him up in a little farm, and give him 
cows and sheep and pigs to tend ; he’d be ten 
times happier than here. There’s no common 
sense in the laws, if they say our Sophy’s son is 
to take the place of your son, my lady ; and to 
his own misery too. I’d say nothing if anybody 
was the better for it. But it is just the ruin of 
my brother Andrew. And to think of him falling 


428 


HALF BROTHERS. 


in love with Miss Dorothy ! when the scullery 
maid would think twice before she married 
him ! ” 

Poor fellow ! ” sighed Margaret. “ Poor fel- 
low ! ” she said many times to herself during the 
next few days, as preparations were made for 
their deiDarture. Dorothy also was full of pity 
for him, and devoted every hour of the day to 
him. She visited with him all their favorite 
haunts, which were grooving to her more beau- 
tiful with the touch of spring upon them, though 
to him the vanishing of winter brought regret. 
She read to him once more the “Fioretti di San 
Francisco,” and heard him read over and over 
again the first few chapters, vrhich he had mas- 
tered under her tuition, or perhaps learned by 
heart merely. But Dorothy, though grieved and 
troubled for him, was glad to go south. Her 
spirits rose high at the thought of how short a 
distance would separate her from Pliilip, and the 
still more pleasant thought that he was willing 
to make Apley his home again, shrinking no 
more from the sight of Phyllis. It was with a 
light heart, saddened for a few minutes only by 
Martin’s face of moody melancholy, that she 
quitted Brackenburn. 

The old house fell back into its former dreary 
stillness. Andrew and Mary Goldsmith returned 
to take charge of it ; and the tutor resumed his 
routine duties of educating and civilizing Martin. 
But Martin was duller and less apt than before. 
Dorothy had left with him her “Fioretti,” tell- 
ing him to ask his tutor to read to him, and to 


LAUBAS DOUBTS. 


429 


let him learn out of it. But the book was too 
precious to him ; alone he spelt through the 
chapters she had taught him, but he would let 
no one else touch it. If he must learn to read 
it should be in English, out of his dog’s-eared 
primer. But he could learn no more. 

There was again nothing to do during the 
long days which the advancing spring brought. 
When the east winds blew bitterly over the moor 
he lay silent and still in the warmth of the fire ; 
when the air was heated by the rays of the sun, 
which was mounting every day higher into the 
heavens, he basked, silent and still, in its warmth. 
Andrew again attached himself as the constant 
companion of Sophy’s son, though between them 
must ever stand the barrier of different tongues 
— a barrier which neither of them could cross. 
There were a hundred things Andrew wanted to 
say to him, especially to warn him against cut- 
ting off the entail, when he was dead, but it could 
not be done. The two were seldom apart, though 
they could exchange no thoughts. The per- 
sistent, dogged affection of this old man, his 
grandfather, won its way somewhat into Martin’s 
heart. He grew accustomed to his presence, and 
missed him if he was absent. 

The one person who rejoiced most in Margaret’s 
return to Apley was Sidney. She had been more 
separated ^from him these last few months than 
she had ever been since he first knew her. It 
struck Margaret that his burden pressed more 
heavily upon him than it did at first. The 
parliamentary session had been running its 


430 


HALF BROTHERS. 


course, and lie, avIio was an ardent politician, 
stood outside the arena. Many of his former 
colleagues, possessing only a partial knowledge 
of the events of the last years, treated him with 
thinly disguised contempt or studied neglect. 
Even in Apley and its neighborhood the faces 
of old friends were estranged, and their manner 
chilling. He was no longer the public favorite. 

Sidney felt this change bitterly and profoundly. 
It had always been his aim to surround himself 
with kindly and smiling faces, which should 
meet his eye wherever he looked, even to the 
farthest circle of his sphere. His servants and 
dependents almost idolized him, and he had suc- 
ceeded in gaining popularity among his equals. 
1^0 w all faces seemed changed and critical. 
Even God’s face was turned away from him. He 
was walking in heaviness and darkness of soul, 
such as he had not known before his sin had 
found him out, and while his conscience was 
satisfied with mechanical and superficial religion. 
His path was strait where it had once been 
broad and pleasant. Still, deeper down than this 
surface conscience of his, and this heaviness of 
soul, in his inmost spirit, touched by no other 
spirit than God’s, there was a stirring of life and 
love such as he had never known before, which 
no words can shadow forth, and no mind save 
that which feels it can conceive. 

It was a necessary consequence of this intrinsic 
change that he and Margaret should draw nearer 
to one another. He understood now what had 
been mysterious and incomprehensible in her. 


LAURA* 8 DOUBTS. 


431 


There was in a degree the same sense of closer 
union and mutual comprehension between him 
and the rector. While other faces were turned 
away, these two shone upon him with a diviner 
light of love and friendship. But there was no 
one else. Even Dorothy, with all her sweetness, 
was judging him, balancing the scales of justice 
with the severe evenhandedness of youth with a 
bandage over its eyes. Philip had passed beyond 
him, and stood higher than he in his youthful 
probity and honor. They were right ; he had 
been guilty of a great wrong. 

Always gnawing at his heart was the remorse- 
ful recollection of his eldest son, whom he could 
not love, but for whom he felt an unutterable 
pity. A living witness against his selfishness and 
hypocrisy ! The thought of him, haunting him 
at all times, was charged with misery. It was 
becoming morbid with him, when Margaret, not 
too soon, came back to Apley, and was once more 
his daily companion. 

Margaret and Laura met on apparently the old 
terms. Margaret was very anxious that there 
should be no break in the intimacy between 
Sidney and the rector. Partly on this account, 
and partly from the patience and pity she had 
learned for the follies of others, she made no dif- 
ference toward Laura. But Dorothy, again with 
the severity of youth, could not tolerate the pres- 
ence of Phyllis’s mother. Phyllis herself was 
away ; but when Laura came up to the Hall, 
Dorothy found some pretext to be absent, or, if 
that was impossible, sat by in unbroken silence. 


432 


HALF BROTHERS. 


Not one of Laura’s blandishments could induce 
her to go to the Rectory. Dick’s chances were 
gone, if he ever had any. 

“I see plainly enough what Sidney and Mar- 
garet are about,” Laura said to her husband. 
“Now Philip has lost the inheritance, and is a 
poor match, they are going k> bring about a mar- 
riage between him and Dorothy Churchill. They 
are shrewd enough for that, with all their un- 
worldliness.” 

“ Philip and Dorothy ! ” he repeated though t- 
fally ; “ that seems to me an excellent marriage, 
now that my poor little Phyllis has found out 
she never loved Philip. I should have rejoiced 
in giving Phyllis to him ; but doubtless Dorothy 
is still better suited. And Sidney wished it be- 
fore he knew of Phyllis’s engagement to Philip.” 

“ But I was hoping Dick would have a chance 
with Dorothy,” she said. 

“Dick? Oh, no!” he answered. “It would 
grieve me to the heart if any of my sons became 
fortune hunters. Dorothy is too rich for any of 
them. Let them marry girls in their own station, 
and live honest, industrious lives. I am glad 
Dick never thought of such a thing.” 

“But Philip is in the same position now ; it is 
just as much fortune-hunting for him to seek 
Dorothy.” 

“Nothing of the kind,” he said with the sud- 
den sharpness of a dreamy, mild-tempered man. 
“Do you suppose Sidney has nothing but" those 
estates bought by Sir John Martin, our uncle ? 
He has had that magnificent business for over 


LAURA'S DOUBTS. 


433 


five-and-twenty years. All that he has made 
for himself will go to Philip.” 

“ Why does Philip become a medical student, 
then ? ” she asked snappishly. 

‘‘Because the lad does not care to be doing 
nothing,” he replied, “and Margaret does not like 
him to engage in commerce. She says she does 
not want him to have nothing to do save merely 
amassing money. Of course, he would have been a 
country gentleman, practically a landlord, looking 
after his father’s interests and the welfare of his 
future tenants. He would have become a magis- 
trate, and he was admirably fitted for filling many 
useful posts as a country gentleman. Now this 
prospect has come to an end he chooses to study 
surgery instead of going into business; a good 
choice, I think. But he will be a rich man, rich 
enough to marry a greater heiress than Dorothy, 
without incurring the reproach of fortune hunt- 
ing. Sidney must be little short of being a mil- 
lionaire.” 

Could this be true ? thought Laura with a sink- 
ing heart. George might easily be mistaken, but 
then again it was quite probable that Sidney had 
made a large fortune by trade. Enormous for- 
tunes were made in the city, and Sidney was al- 
ways spoken of as a very successful man. Sup- 
pose he should be a millionaire ! There was not 
the shadow of a doubt which of his sons his 
money would go to. Hugh was well provided 
for, and Martin would not get a shilling, more 
than was entailed upon him. Philip as a mil- 
lionaire would be a better match than even an 


434 


SALF BROTEiSm. 


English landlord with a Yorkshire estate, worth 
only £10,000 a year. She wished ’she had been 
less hasty in breaking off Phyllis’s engagement. 
It was that folly of Philip becoming a medical 
student which had led her astray. But then, 
would Philip be a millionaire ? 


CHAPTER LIII. 

ANDREW’S HOPE. 

A FEW weeks after Margaret and Dorothy left 
Brackenburn, a telegram reached Sidney in town 
from Martin’s tutor: “Martin lost since dawn 
yesterday ; searching moors.” 

The sense of loneliness and separation became 
intolerable to Martin after Dorothy was gone. 
The homesickness, if it could be called so in one 
who had never had a home, made him uncon- 
trollably restless. There was not in all this vast 
expanse of moorland an object that could dis- 
tract his brooding memory, and in the old house, 
with its now empty rooms, there was no one who 
could speak in his own language except the 
tutor, a kindly man enough, but with no special 
interest in his uncouth charge. Martin had 
borne his exile as long as he could. Now he 
would make his way down to London where Dor- 
othy and Philip lived. His father also was 
there, and that beautiful, gracious signora, who 
called herself his mother, and who always looked 
at him with wonderful kindness in her eyes. 
When he saw them he would make them under- 
stand that he could not live in England any 
longer, and they would let him go back to Am- 
pezzo, and buy him a farm there among the old 

435 


436 


BALF BROTHERS. 


familiar faces. 'No one would ill treat him any 
more when they saw how rich he was. 

He set off in the clear gray of the dawn, jnst 
as the twitter of the birds began in every tree 
and hedgerow, and the silver drops of dew 
hung upon every leaf. If was barely a year 
since he had been taken from his mountain 
home, and his life of misery and oppression 
there ; but to him it was as long as centuries. 
He recollected well enough what he had suffered ; 
still he felt vaguely that, though his sufferings 
were different, they were hot less in this strange 
country. He was like a blind man whose sight 
is partially restored, and behold ! everything is 
dim, and monstrous, and full of terror ; he dare 
not move lest he should come in contact with 
these menacing forms. All the new world to 
which Martin had been brought was out of 
keeping with him. He had no place in it. If 
he could only live like the farmers in the Am- 
pezzo Valley, a hardy, sturdy, stalwart life, 
where his sinewy, clumsy limbs would be of serv- 
ice to him, there^ would be a chance of his being 
happy. 

These impressions, like all others, were vague, 
but not on that account less powerful. He could 
not shape them into language, but he fancied if 
he could see Philip or Dorothy he could make 
them understand. But they were gone, these 
only beloved ones, and he did not know when 
he should see them again. He must follow them, 
or he would die. His wanderings took a south- 
erly direction. It was natural to him to avoid 


ANDUEWS HOPE. 


43^7 


passing tliroiigli the streets of any town, and 
when he came near to one he turned aside and 
took a roundabout road. There was no hard- 
ship to him in sleeping out of doors at this 
time of the year, and he felt no .inconvenience 
from the fact that he could not maintain a decent 
appearance. In the villages he passed through, 
buying food with the few shillings he possessed, 
he was taken for a foreign tramp, and well 
watched. The children sometimes hooted at 
him, but that was nothing ; it was almost wel- 
come, and he paid no attention to it beyond a 
dickering smile. 

Meanwhile, in all the local papers, and very 
quickly in the London papers also, there ap- 
peared sensational paragraphs describing the dis- 
appearance of and search made for the son and 
lieir of Sidney Martin. The whole story, with the 
old scandal, came to the front again. In the 
course of a fow days the fugitive was found, and 
brought back to Brackenburn, whither his father 
and brother had hurried upon receiving the news. 
It was in vain to reproach him. He was a man, 
with a man’s right to freedom, and not even his 
father was justided in keeping him under re- 
straint as if he was a madman. A man who 
suffered from no sense of hardship when he was 
living out of doors, with little food besides wild 
berries and deld vegetables, might spend the 
greater part of his time in these dtful wanderings, 
relapsing more and more into his original bar- 
barism. 

“Your mother and Dorothy cannot live here 


438 


PTALF BROTHERS. 


altogether to be his keeper,” said Sidney to 
Philip, ‘‘ yet it is evident his grandfather has no 
control over him. What more can we do ? ” 

‘‘You have done all you could, father,” 
answered Philip, “and now I say, let him go 
back to Cortina, if he is so bent upon it ; and we 
should not lose sight of him. It would be nothing 
to buy him a farm there.” 

“ Impossible ! ” said Sidney. “ If he returns a 
rich man, some woman there will [marry him, 
and his son will be no more fit to be an English 
gentleman than he is. If we could make him 
understand about the entail I could pay him to 
cut it off ; but he could never know what it 
meant. No ; he must not go back to Cor- 
tina.” 

“Let us take him down to Apley,” suggested 
Philip. 

‘ ‘ W ould he be better off there ? ’ ’ asked his 
father. “ He finds life here too civilized with all 
the moors to roam over. How would he feel 
where every acre of land is enclosed, and no tres- 
passing allowed, and where life is so much more 
cramped by custom and conventionality? Do you 
think he could bear it? I say nothing about 
your mother and Dorothy, whose lives must be 
upset and spoiled by his presence ; but would he 
be happier?” 

“ Look at him,” said Philip, “how he is listen- 
ing and watching us, as if he would tear the 
words out of our mouths. Martin,” he added in 
Italian, “ we are talking about you.” 

“Yes, yes ! ” he answered eagerly. 


ANDREW'S HOPE. 


439 


^‘What are we to do with you?” asked 
Philip. 

“ Send me back to Cortina,” he replied. 

“But we want you to live here,” continued 
P lillip ; “ we wish you to marry some good English 
girl, and bring up your sons to be like Hugh and 
me. This house and these lands will belong to 
your eldest son when you die ; and he must be 
brought up like us, not like the farmers in Cor- 
tina.” 

“ If I die, and if I have no son, who would the 
house belong to?” asked Martin reflectively. 

They did not answer him. Martin’s face was 
thoughtful and anxious, and he was evidently 
puzzling over this new idea. He looked from 
one to the other with an expression of wistful 
entreaty in his deep-set eyes, and a look of 
stronger intelligence than they had seen before 
dawned upon his face. 

“My brother,” he said, “before I came you 
were in my place. You did not know I lived ; 
you were the eldest son. I take from you this 
house, these lands. Take them back from me ; 
they make me sad. I will keep none of them. 
See ! I am not even good enough to be thy 
servant.” 

“But you cannot give them back,” rejoined 
Philip. “Perhaps I might take them if you 
could and let you be happy in your own way. 
But you are my father’s eldest son, and you 
must have them, and your eldest son after you.” 

“ Ah ! what a misery ! ” he cried. “ I take all 
these things from my brother! ” 


440 


HALF BnOTHERS. 


He spoke mournfully and tears glistened in 
his eyes. He flung himself down on the floor, 
and hid his face with his hands in an attitude of 
despondency and wretchedness. 

“If I died,” he said at last, “all would come 
right. Why did you not leave me in Ampezzo ? 
I do you harm ; I rob you.” 

“No, you do me no harm,” answered Philip ; 
“besides, you are my brother and we care for 
you. If you are good we shall love you.” 

To Philip it seemed as if this brother of his 
was little more than a child, who might be 
managed as a child. But Martin shook his head 
and looked up intently into his father’s face. 

“You will never love me,” he said. “My 
father, it would be a happy thing for you all if I 
was to die.” 

The words were so true that neither of them 
could contradict him. If Martin died how many 
of the vexatious complications that beset them 
would cease, and soon be forgotten by the world ! 
Margaret might have said something to console 
the sorrowful heart just awaking to life and con- 
sciousness, but she was not there. 

“If I could only die ! ” he murmured to him- 
self with exceeding sadness. 

The problem of how to atone for his sin presented 
itself with augmented force to Sidney. This son 
of his had none of the distinctive vices of a savage, 
unless it was a touch of ferocious cruelty, not 
surprising in one whose whole life had been sub- 
ject to oppression and persecution. He had 
inherited from himself certain moral qualities 


ANDREW'S HOPE. 


441 


wliicli dominated his lower passions ; but from 
his mother he had derived a self-will and a lack 
of intelligence which must always make him blind 
and deaf to reason. As he crouched there on the 
ground, muttering to himself, a vivid image of 
Sophy came across Sidney’s mind. This poor 
creature could never make a thorough savage, 
self-reliant and triumphant in his animal nature ; 
neither could he now be trained into an intelli- 
gent and contented member of civilized society. 
What could be done for him ? 

Andrew Goldsmith had taken himself off 
immediately upon Sidney’s arrival at Bracken- 
burn, but Mary remained in charge of the house- 
hold. To Mary, as well as to Bachel, it was a 
great trial to see Philip’s place taken by Martin, 
though he was their own niece’s son. Their old- 
fashioned loyalty to their superiors made them 
feel as if he was an interloper, one who was 
utterly unfit for the position which was Philip’s 
due. If Martin could have been brought to 
England to inherit their own savings, and perhaps 
succeed his grandfather as the village saddler, 
they would have welcomed Sophy’s son with all 
their hearts. But it seemed out of the course of 
nature that he should succeed Sidney, and take 
Philip’s estate. Mary, too, was additionally 
troubled just now by a scheme of her brother 
Andrew’s. 

‘‘ Martin’s giving you a deal of trouble, sir,” 
said Mary the evening of the day after Martin 
had been brought back to the Manor House. 
“If it wasn’t for our Andrew, I should say let 


442 


HALF BROTHERS. 


him go back where he came from. But Andrew 
won’ t hear a word of that sort. He says Martin 
shall have his rights, and as long as he lives he’ll 
see there’s fair play. But if you’ll let me tell 
you a secret, sir, Andrew’s bent upon getting 
him married, because he thinks you’ll want to 
keep him single, so as Mr. Philip may come into 
the estate some day.” 

“ It would be the best thing that could be done 
for him,” said Sidney, “if Andrew could find 
anybody who would marry him. I mean any 
good, reputable girl.” 

“ Well, I don’t credit it ! ” replied Mary, “ but 
I think Mrs. Martin at the Rectory put it into 
Andrew’s head at Christmas, talking to him a 
lot of nonsense. He says he’s sure she’d be will- 
ing for Miss Phyllis to marry him when he’s 
renovated and polished up a little. But Rachel 
and me laughed at him, and said, anyhow, the 
rector ’lid never think of giving his consent to 
her marrying a poor, ignorant, dark Roman 
Catholic, worshiping a crucifix set up for him 
by Miss Dorothy, to say nothing of his rough 
ways, and dreadful bad manners. Miss Phyllis 
would never look at him, I said, and Mrs. Martin 
has never set eyes on him yet. All the same, it 
put it into Andrew’s head that somebody would 
marry Martin, if he could not marry as high as 
Miss Phyllis.” 

It spite of the heaviness of his heart, Sidney 
could not repress a grim laugh at the thought of 
Laura marrying Phyllis to his eldest son, when 
that son was Martin, not Philip. 


ANDREW'S HOPE. 


443 


“Does Andrew know of anyone else lie 
asked. 

“ Why, yes,” said Mary, “ if he’s not hindered. 
There’s a sort of far-off cousin of onrs, a pretty, 
nice-mannered girl, something like our Sophy, 
you know ; she’s a clerk in a post office, getting 
her fifteen pounds a year. Selina Goldsmith her 
name is, and Andrew wants me to have her here 
to keep me company, he says, and wait on him 
and me. But I’m sure he’s got another notion in 
his head, and Bachel told me to tell you, when I 
wrote to ask her advice.” 

“Mary, you and Rachel are faithful old 
friends,” he answered, “ but believe me when I 
assure you Margaret and I would be grateful to 
any good girl who would become Martin’s wife 
and make him happy. There are many women 
who would marry him for his future position, if 
Miss Phyllis would not. You have my full sanc- 
tion to bringing your young kinswoman here, 
and, if you succeed in marrying her to Martin, 
half our difficulties will be overcome.” 

“Andrew will never believe it,” said Mary. 
“ And she may sit at table with us when Martin 
is there, and go out walks with him and Andrew ? 
I shan’t let her go without Andrew.” 

“You may do all you can to promote such 
a marriage,” he replied; “and if Martin is 
married before next Christmas, we shall be only 
too glad.” 

He returned to Apley the next day with a 
sense of relief in the hopeful prospect which 
Mary’s words had opened to him. It was not 


444 


HALF BROTHERS. 


improbable that Martin would marry this girl, 
and if he did, he might lead a secluded and 
tolerably happy life in the old house at Bracken- 
burn, and gradually fall into occupjdng himself 
on the farm that was attached to it. Once suit- 
ably married, Martin would be no longer so 
great an anxiety to them all, and he himself 
might live down the aspersions so lavishly cast 
upon his reputation. Martin’s children should 
be brought to Apley at an early age, and, though 
he would not separate them too much from 
their parents, they should grow up under his 
own and Margaret’s care. To them he might 
make that atonement which he could never 
make to his son. 

Andrew Goldsmith rejoiced greatly in the suc- 
cess of his scheme, to which Mary had withdrawn 
all her opposition. Selina was brought to live at 
Brackenburn. She was something like Sophy — 
pretty, lively, and pettish. To exchange her 
drudgery at the small post olRce and shop, 
where she had been glad to earn fifteen pounds 
a year, for the grandeur of living at a manor 
house, with very little to do, seemed at first an 
immense step in life to her girlish ambition. 
Andrew had rather plainly hinted at what a 
height she might climb to if she chose, but to 
his intense disappointment and dismay, Selina 
seemed much more shocked at Martin’s rough 
ways and bad manners than Miss Dorothy herself 
was. He had seen Dorothy carry Martin his 
food from the dining room to the porch, when he 
refused to sit down to the table, and many a 


ANDREW'S HOPE. 


445 


time had Martin persisted in walking barefoot 
beside her on the turfy moors. But Selina de- 
clared she could not put ui3 with his coarse- 
ness and vulgarity, and she seemed more inclined 
to devote herself to winning the admiration of 
Martin’s tutor. 

Andrew insisted upon Selina accompanying 
them often in their rambles on the moors, ram- 
bles irksome and tedious to her beyond measure. 
There was nothing to be seen there save earth 
and sky. Martin paid but little heed to her. 
Like all the rest, she could not talk to him. 
Those who knew his language were gone away, 
and how long it would be before they came again 
he did not know. This girl, whose voice was 
loud and shrill, and who laughed all the time a 
little giggling laugh, except when she was sulky, 
who had strange antics, shaking her head at him, 
and holding up her finger, and pointing here and 
there, was altogether unlike his signorina, or 
the gracious and stately lady who was now his 
father’s wife. He liked his rambles best alone, 
though he could tolerate the companionship of 
the old man, his grandfather, who was always 
silent, but who looked at him often with loving- 
eyes. It did not escape his notice that, since his 
foiled attempt to find his way to London, he was 
never left long alone but one or other of his guar- 
dians sought him out. The ismcj took posses- 
sion of him that Selina had been added to their 
number to be another spy upon him. 

Andrew GroldsmitlTs impatience was extreme. 
He was angry with Selina for failing to win his 


446 


HALF BROTHERS. 


grandson’s love, and angry at the thought of 
Martin not marrying. That would be a triumph 
for his enemy. If he could only argue with 
Martin, he fancied something could be done, but 
all he had to say must be translated by the tutor, 
who was in Sidney’s pay. This barrier of lan- 
guage between himself and Sophy’s son was 
another of the wrongs Sidney had inflicted on 
him. 


CHAPTER LIY. 

FAILURES. 

Sidney’s disappointment at the failure of this 
new scheme almost equaled Andrew’s. He had 
built a good many hopes on the chance of Mar- 
tin’s marriage, for Margaret dwelt much on the 
humanizing influence a wife and children would 
have upon him. But Rachel secretly rejoiced 
in her brother’s discomfiture ; and Mary, who 
could not be brought to fall into the scheme, 
watched its failure gladly. Neither of them 
could believe it would be a good thing for 
Philip. 

Nothing could be more melancholy than Mar- 
tin’s life became. At Cortina he had been miser- 
ably oppressed, every man’s hand being against 
him ; but he had been so fully occupied by the 
heavy tasks exacted from him by Chiara that 
time had never hung heavily on his hands. The 
very hatred and tyranny he had suffered from, 
and the deprivations he had to undergo, supplied 
that spice of excitement without which existence 
is a tedious monotony. A deep disgust of life 
took hold of his half awakened mind. In former 
days the struggle for existence had occupied him. 
That hunger, which hardened him to a long 
and patient effort, as he stealthily followed and 
trapped some wild animal, was no longer felt ; 

4i7 


448 


HALF BROTHERS. 


his food was brought to him oftener than he 
needed it, and he ate more than was good for 
him out of sheer want of employment. The 
sound, dreamless sleep that came to him on his 
heap of straw in Chiara’s hut did not visit the 
soft, comfortable bed, which his aunt Mary took 
care to make herself every morning, that the 
feathers might be kept downy. Even his out- 
door life was no longer a perilous climbing of 
peaks with deep precipices and abysses, which 
compelled him to give a strained attention to 
every step ; it was a dull loitering over a safe 
plain, with an old man always Jogging on beside 
him, and a smooth horizon bounding his view. 
He was too ignorant to know what was ailing 
him, body and mind ; but nostalgia held him in 
its dread embrace, and life was becoming an in- 
sufferable burden to him. 

Now and then the heavy cloud lifted, and a 
gleam of light reached him. Philip came down 
as often as he could spare a day or two, and his 
Hying visits were Martin’s only sunshine. He 
was at last beginning to realize that this grand 
signore was indeed his brother. If he knew when 
he was to come he watched all day for the mo- 
ment when he could set out to meet him. If 
Philip came unawares his transport of gladness 
more than once brought the tears to Philix)’s 
eyes. But his father’s visits produced in him a 
feeling of anxiety, and almost of terror. He was 
afraid of him, and this fear flung him back into 
his original moroseness and barbarism in his 
father’s presence. 


FAILUUES. 


440 


His longing to see Margaret and Dorothy was 
intense, but he never gave expression to it. Only 
when kneeling before the crucilix, near the en- 
trance of his cave, did he utter either of their 
names. In this place alone did he find any mo- 
ments of comparative freedom from the myste- 
rious malady which was consuming him. The 
damp, rocky roof and walls, the hard, rough 
floor, the utter stillness and wildness of the place 
were like a bit of his old life when he sought 
refuge in his cave on the mountains. Sometimes, 
when he managed to elude the vigilance of his 
grandfather, he made his^^way to this spot, and 
felt, for an hour or two, something of the restful, 
satisfied feelings we all enjoy wdien we are at 
home. When, as he stood at the low mouth of 
the cave, and lifted up his heavy eyes to the 
worn, grotesque, pathetic figure of Christ upon 
the cross, that familiar sight on which his childish 
gaze had so often rested, then he could almost 
fancy that a stej) or two would bring him out 
upon the sharp, ice-bound peaks, where the biting 
wind would string up his relaxed frame, and 
send the blood tingling through his languid 
veins. 

The summer and autumn passed by, but Mar- 
garet and Dorothy did not return to Bracken- 
burn. Sidney intended to keep Christmas there 
again, and their visit was reserved for the winter. 
Philip and Hugh also, though they spent a week 
now and then shooting on the moors, did not 
give up the whole of the long vacation to Martin, 
as they had done the year before. Some of the 


450 


HALF BROTHERS. 


time was spent at Apley, where their intercourse 
with their cousins at the Rectory had returned 
to its former channel, excepting with Phyllis, 
whose absence when Philip was staying at the 
Hall was as regular as his presence there. 

Laura was for once perplexed and uncertain. 
She could not forget that though Philip was at 
present only a medical student he might some 
day be a millionaire. She had means of setting 
an inquiry afloat as to Sidney’s position in the 
city ; but the answers she got were contradictory, 
and in consequence unsatisfactory. Ought she, 
in Phyllis’s interests, to attach him once more to 
her ? or should she see him carry off a rich heir- 
ess like Dorothy before her very eyes % She could 
not forgive herself for having been too precipi- 
tate in breaking off his long engagement with 
Phyllis, but she did not think it would be im- 
possible to renew it. 

She summoned Phyllis home early in October, 
while Philip was still at Apley, in order to see 
how the young people would conduct themselves 
toward one another. But fortune did not favor 
her. Philip and Dorothy met Phyllis unexpect- 
edly in the avenue between the Hall and the 
Rectory. The color mounted up to Philip’s face, 
and there was a slight embarrassment in his 
manner ; but Phyllis was quite self-possessed, 
and spoke to him in a cordial and cousinly 
tone. 

‘‘Why! Philip, it is ages since I saw you,” 
she said gayly, “and now you have quite a pro- 
fessional air. Pray do not ask me after my 


FAILURES. 


451 


health, dear Dr. Martin. I cannot let you feel 
my pulse, or look at my tongue.” 

“ I need not,” he answered ; “you never had 
anything the matter with you, and you have not 
now. I wish some of our poor hospital patients 
had your chances of keeping well.” 

“He talks of the hospital immediately,” she 
rejoined, tossing her head, “and he smells of 
his drugs. O Philip ! Philip ! that you should 
come to this ! You are a lost man.” 

“ I suppose I am,” he said, laughing ; “lam lost 
to my old life, but I like the new one as much. 
Phyllis, it seems like a hundred years since I 
saw you.” 

“ That is what makes you look so old,” she re- 
torted ; “a hundred years, added to the twenty- 
three I know of, must make a tremendous differ- 
ence. How much more aged you are than 
me!” 

“Do you think he looks older?” asked Dor- 
othy rather anxiously. “Mrs. Martin is afraid 
he works too hard, and she is troubled a little 
about it.” 

“ So are you,” rejoined Phyllis. 

“ Yes, I am,” she replied steadily, yet a little 
shyly. She was more disturbed by this unex- 
pected meeting than either of the other two were. 
It seemed to her that it must be inexpressibly 
painful to them both, and that it would be better 
^ for her to go away. 

“Well, good-by,” said Phyllis airily ; “here 
is the gate. Open it for me, and shut it behind 
me, or we shall have your Scotch cattle in our 


452 


HALF BROTHERS. 


glebe. We sliall see you at the Kectory soon, 
Philip?” 

Philip opened the gate, and he and Dorothy 
stood in silence watching her, until, as she turned 
a corner that would hide her from their sight, 
she looked round and kissed her hand to them. 

“How pretty she is!” exclaimed Philip. It 
astonished him that he felt so little agitation 
upon seeing her for the first time. She was very 
pretty ; very fair. “ But if she be not fair for 
me, what care I how fair she be ? ” he said to 
himself, feeling the very spirit of Wither’ s old 
poem. The face beside him, not so faultless as 
Phyllis’s, was more beautiful to him for its ex- 
pression of almost timid sympathy with his sup- 
posed grief. Dorothy’s eyes looked wistfully 
into his. 

“I cannot understand how or why I loved her,” 
he went on in a low tone. “I suppose it was 
because I grew up with the idea that she was to 
be my wife. Not at home, but at the Rectory 
she was always called my little wife. So it grew 
with my growth.” 

“It must have been a great sorrow to you,” 
murmured Dorothy. 

“It was the uprooting of a fancy, not a sor- 
row,” he said ; “ I am thankful it was torn up 
like the weed it was. A weed ! Yes ; and it 
would have been a noxious weed, poisoning my 
whole life. It is compensation enough for losing 
the position for which Phyllis would have mar- 
ried me.” 

They walked on under the overarching trees, 


FAILURES. 


453 


with the setting sun throwing long shadows be- 
fore them as they moved side by side. A few 
fallen leaves lay upon the road, or whirled 
merrily around them in the evening wind. 

“There is only one girl who is like my 
mother,” he said suddenly, “and if I could 
hope to win her — if it was in years to come — if 
she would wait for me ” 

“ Wh'o is it?” asked Dorothy tremulously, as 
he paused ; and she looked up into his face with 
a pained expression. So soon to have forgotten 
his love to Phyllis — and to love again ! 

“Why, Dorothy!” he exclaimed, “there is 
nobody in the world like my mother but you ! 
Don’t you feel it ? My father is always pointing 
it out. Will you not some day forget my foolish 
fancy for Phyllis, and believe that I love you, 
and only you, with all my heart? I have loved 
you ever since we were at Cortina and found out 
poor Martin.” 

Dorothy made no answer. Her heart beat so 
-quickly that she knew she could not control her 
voice or her tears if she attempted to speak. Her 
love for him dated farther back than his for her. 

“You think me fickle, and that I fall in love 
too easily,” he said in tones of deprecating 
earnestness, “but set me a time, let me prove 
myself pn earnest. I had not seen you when I 
was inextricably bound to Phyllis. Oh ! I love 
you quite differently ; I think of you as if you 
were my conscience. I try to see myself as you 
see me ; and when I do I feel how unworthy I 
am of you.” 


454 


HALF BROTHERS. 


“No, no,” she answered, between laughing 
and sobbing ; “ unworthy of me ! ” 

“Then you will give me time to prove that I 
love you,” he said, “and to give me a chance of 
winning your love.” 

“There is no need of that,” she whispered. 

“Is that true?” he cried, seizing her hands, 
and gazing eagerly into her face. “ Do you mean 
that you have loved me, blind idiot that I was? 
Do you mean that you were not disgusted by me 
when I was playing the forlorn lover, and must 
needs be sent abroad to cure me of my folly? 
O Dorothy ! if I could only make you forget 
what a fool I made of myself ! ” 

“I was so sorry for you,” she said pityingly, 
“and I would have done all I could to save you 
from your sorrow. But it is best as it is, per- 
haps.” 

“A thousand times best!” he exclaimed. 
“Ever since we were at Cortina you have been 
in my heart of hearts ; and I understand a little 
now the sacred mystery that a true marriage 
must be.” 


CHAPTER LY. 

A NEW PLAN. 

Theee were more persons than Laura Martin 
who felt bitter and disappointed when the 
announcement was made that Sidney Martin’s 
second son was about to marry his rich ward. 
Dorothy, with her large fortune, had been the 
subject of much speculation and many schemes 
among Sidney’s circle, and he did not escape 
further odium. 

His career stood in this light in the eyes of 
most who knew him. In his early manhood he 
contracted a low marriage, which he kept a pro- 
found secret for fear of losing the favor of his 
rich uncle, whose next heir he was. When tired 
and disgusted with his unsuitable wife, he de- 
serted her and his infant son in a remote and 
almost unvisited spot in the Austrian Tyrol, thus 
dooming his firstborn child -to a life of misery 
and degradation many degrees worse than that 
of the lowest laborer in England. After his suc- 
cession to the estates of his uncle he assumed the 
character of an ardent philanthropist and Chris- 
tian, by which he gained the affection of the 
only daughter and heiress of Colonel Cleveland 
of Apley. His eldest son by this marriage was 
brought up as his heir, and would have succeeded 
him but for the accidental discovery of his first- 
455 


456 


UALF BROTHERS. 


born son, a man of thirty, densely ignorant, and 
as uncivilized as a savage. The right of this man 
having been established by his mother’s father, 
Sidney was compelled to acknowledge him and 
place him in the house which would belong to 
him upon his father’s death. But to compensate 
the second son, thus dispossessed and disinherited, 
he handed over to him the wealthy ward, who 
had been entrusted to his care by a man who knew 
him only under his assumed character. This 
young girl had been kept secluded from all 
chances of making another choice. Sidney Mar- 
tin was a clever man, said the world, a clever 
Christian. 

No man knew the depth of his repentance. 
Even Margaret but dimly guessed it. If he could 
have made a sacrifice of all his life, and gone 
back to the hour when he fled from Sophy’s 
shrill peevishness, he would have done it, and 
taken up his life afresh, burdened with her as 
his wife and the mother of his children. But 
the past could not be undone. There was a 
closer union now between him and Margaret than 
there ever had been, though it had struck its 
roots in his sin and sorrow. It might have been 
a higher union, lifted up into pure regions of 
holiness and gladness, but he had dragged her 
down to him in the valley instead of rising with 
her to fairer heights. 

Another scheme presented itself to his brain, 
always busily planning how to retrieve the past. 
Why should not Philip and Dorothy marry at 
once, and go to live at Brackenburn ? Philip had 


A PLAN. 


457 


been brought up to fulfill the duties of an English 
country gentleman, a post Martin could never 
fill. He might still take that position, and look 
after the Yorkshire estate as long as Sidney him- 
self lived. Then the progress which Martin had 
been making under Dorothy’s influence, and 
which had been arrested by her departure, would 
go on again. Martin was sinking back mentally, 
and was failing physically. Philip and Dorothy 
would save him body and soul. 

Margaret approved cordially of this idea. Her 
heart was full of pity for the desolate man, liv- 
ing his lonely life among people who must utterly 
fail to understand him. There was no reason why 
Philip and Dorothy should not marry soon and 
take up their charge. They could make a home 
for Martin, who loved them both so ardently; 
and if it came to pass in the future that he should 
marry, they would give up the place to him. 
As Dorothy loved her birthplace so much, she 
and Philip might choose to build themselves a 
house in the neighborhood of Brackenburn. 

There was one person only who might raise 
an objection to this plan ; and Philip went 
down to Brackenburn to consult Andrew Gold- 
smith, and convince him of its desirability. 
It was a November night when he reached the 
manor house, and scarcely a light shone in any 
of its windows, and not a sound was to be heard 
until Philip rang the great hall door bell. It 
was opened by Selina, with a candle in her hand ; 
and by its dim light she led him along the many 
passages until they reached the door of the 


458 


HALF BROTHERS. 


housekeeper’s room near the kitchen. Both 
Andrew and Mary Goldsmith were dozing in the 
flickering firelight, and Selina giggled audibly 
at their bewildered efforts to appear awake and 
lively. 

‘‘A poor home for Martin,” thought Philip, 
as he shook hands with the old people. Martin 
was stretched upon the hearthrug, and did not 
stir. He was lying in a languid posture, as if 
his strength was quite worn out. His hair, no 
longer left to grow in a tangled mass, lay in thin, 
straight lines on his forehead and his hollow 
temples, which had almost the color of old ivory. 
His cheeks, too, were sunken, and as he slept 
there was a tremulous movement about his lips, 
which gave to him an air of childish weakness. 
He looked like a strong man whose strength was 
slowly ebbing away. 

“ Martin, old man,” said Philip, laying a cold 
hand on his burning forehead, “wake up and 
give me a welcome.” 

Martin awoke with a violent start, and looked 
up vacantly, like a dog just roused from his 
sleep, but when he saw who was bending over 
him he burst into a passion of tears. 

“It is time Dorothy and I came to take care of 
him,” thought Philip. 

He would have no other Are kindled, and as 
supper was just ready, he sat down with them. 
When this meal was over, and Mary and Selina 
had gone to see after his room for the night, 
Philip found an opportunity of at once telling his 
business. Andrew was fond of him, but in his 


A WEW PLAN. 


459 


obstinate old heart there was a lurking jealousy 
of this fine young fellow who had so long usurped 
the place of his grandson. It vexed him to see 
Martin stretch himself on the ground at Philip’s 
feet, and gaze up into his face in humble ad- 
miration. 

“ Mr. Goldsmith,” began Philip. In old times 
he had called him Andrew, but since he knew 
him to be his father’s father-in-law he had 
adopted a more formal mode of address, which 
Andrew always acknowledged by a slow and 
somewhat dignified motion of his head. ‘‘Mr. 
Goldsmith, I came to tell you and Mary, who 
are among my earliest friends, that I am going 
to marry Miss Dorothy. Soon, too, for my 
father and mother wish it, as well as myself. 

Andrew took his pipe out of his mouth as if 
to speak, but put it back again till he should 
hear more, for he was sure there -was more to 
come. 

“ We are to be married almost immediately,” 
continued Philip, “partly on Martin’s account. 
You know how he misses my mother and Doro- 
thy, and you know how quickly he learns from 
Dorothy. He has fallen back ever since she went 
away. So we intend to make a home for Martin. 
We are going to take him under our charge, and 
see how much we can do for him. My mother 
says this life is only a moment in our endless 
life, and Dorothy and I are going to spend our 
moment in taking care of my brother.” 

“How are you going to do it ?” asked Andrew 
suspiciously. 


460 


HALF BBOTHERS. 


‘‘ And as soon as we are married, we are com- 
ing here to live with Martin ” 

“That shall never be,” interrupted Andrew, 
bringing his clenched fist down on the table with 
a blow that made Martin start, and cower like a 
frightened hound. “I’ll see that my grandson 
is not turned out of his own house. No, no. 
Marry as soon as you please ; but you shan’t 
come to live in Martin’s place.” 

Andrew’s folly and vehemence were so unex- 
pected by Philii3, that for a minute or two he sat 
silently staring at the old man’s infuriated face. 
Martin, who had been roused by his angry tones, 
sat up on his heels and gazed from one to the 
other in bewildered attention. 

“Mr. Goldsmith,” said Philip, after his pause 
of amazement, “ we are making this arrangement 
chiefly on Martin’s account. It is true Miss 
Dorothy loves this house, where she was born, 
and would rather live here than anywhere else ; 
but she knows it can never be ours. We think 
of building another house in this neighborhood.” 

“Ay!” interrupted Andrew again, “with the 
money left by Sir John Martin to 'build a place 
suitable for his heir. But Martin is his heir. I 
am not too old to see that he has his rights. 
What you say sounds all very well ; but there’s 
nobody but me to see the poor lad gets his own. 
I’m sorry to gainsay you, Mr. Philip, but you 
cannot come to live here in my grandson’s house. 
He must be master, and nobody else.” 

“Not for his own good P’ asked Philip. “ He 
cannot be master, for he does not know how to 


A J^mV PLAN. 


461 


give an order to any servant. He will learn in 
time, if we take him in hand. We thought you 
and Mary would be glad to return to Apley, for 
you are among total strangers here ; and Rachel 
is going to live with us as housekeeper.” 

‘‘Ah!” cried Andrew, with a long-drawn 
accent of suspicion and contempt, “Rachel 
would do anything to serve you. I should soon 
hear that Martin had signed his rights away. I 
couldn’t trust Sophy’s son with Rachel when it 
was you he had to be unsaddled for. No ; it 
shall never be. I’ll stay by Martin as long as I 
live ; and nobody else shall be master or mistress 
in his house.” 

“Martin,” said Philip, stooping down to his 
brother again, and speaking in the simple Italian 
words he understood, “ I am going to marry the 
signorina. Would you like us to come here, 
and live with you always ? ” 

Martin repeated the words slowly to himself in 
a whisper ; and slowly the expression of his 
heavy face turned into a smile so wistful and 
pathetic that it made Philip’s heart ache. It 
was the smile of a soul that sees afar off the glory 
and blissfulness of a life from which it is shut 
out, but which it gazes at with distant and ignor- 
ant sympathy. 

“ Yes, yes, my brother ! ” he answered. 

“I don’t know what you say to him,” said 
Andrew jealously ; “but he’s more simple than 
a child ; you may do what you like with him. 
But you won’t take me in ; neither you nor your 
father. Here Martin is, and here he stays.” 


462 


HALF BROTHERS. 


‘‘We wish him to stay here,’’ replied Philip. 
“We are coming chiefly for his sake.” 

“But I say you shall not come,” persisted 
Andrew. “I’m his only guardian, and I’ll de- 
fend his rights. Come in Philip — turn out Mar- 
tin. That’s how it will be ; and I put down my 
foot against it. Here Martin stops, and here I 
stoj) ; and nobody else comes in as master.” 

“You compel me to remind you that Martin 
has no right to this house,” said Philip, “as 
long as my father lives. This place belongs to 
my father, and to no one else.” 

“I’ll take lawyer’s opinion on that,” he 
answered doggedly. “I’ve given up putting my 
trust in any man, especially Mr. Martin. And 
if it’s true, as sure as you bring Miss Dorothy 
here as your wife I’ll take my grandson aw^ay, 
down to Apley, and all the country-side shall see 
Mr. Martin’s son and heir sitting at wovk in a 
saddler’s shop. He is fitter for that, perhaps, 
than to be a squire ; but whose fault is it ? Who 
deserted him and his mother ? Oh ! Sophy, 
Sophy! my poor lost little girl ! ” 

He dropped his white head upon his hands, 
and his sobs sounded through the little room. 
Philip rose silently, and went away ; and Martin, 
with his bare feet, followed him noiselessly. 
The old man was left alone with his impotent 
rage and grief. 


CHAPTER LYI. 

ON THE MOOES. 

Andrew Goldsmith went, as he had threatened, 
to consult lawyers, one after another, and 
learned, to his vexation, that, so long as the 
father lived, the son had no legal claim to the 
estate. There could be no disputing Sidney’s 
right to dispose of Brackenburn as he pleased 
during his lifetime. The next course to take 
would be to follow out his other threat of having 
his grandson at Apley, and setting him to learn 
his trade in the village shop, in the sight of all 
the passers-by. But here again he found himself 
baffled. He had no authority over Martin ; no 
power save that of persuasion. And how could 
he x^ersuade one with whom he could exchange 
no conversation, except by signs ? Martin was 
free to choose for himself ; and none but his 
enemies had access by language to his mind. 
They might tell him exactly what they pleased ; 
and there was no doubt they would prevail upon 
him to welcome Philip and Dorothy to Bracken- 
burn. Andrew found himself defeated on all 
points. 

One thing he resolved upon in this defeat — he 
would not leave Brackenburn unless he was 
forcibly ejected. He would remain beside Martin, 
jealously guarding him against signing away his 


464 


HALF BROTHELS. 


rights. If they ejected him he would find quarters 
near at hand ; and all the country should hear of 
his apprehensions. The thing should not be done 
in a corner. If it was done it should be proclaimed 
far and wide. He was Martin’s sole protector as 
long as he lived ; and his resolution and resent- 
ment made him feel strong enough to live through 
many long years yet. 

Since old Andrew was so determined in his 
opposition to Sidney’s scheme, there was no 
longer a great haste in pushing forward the mar- 
riage of Philip and Dorothy. But the old pur- 
pose of keeping Christmas at Brackenburn was 
taken up again. Margaret hoped that she and 
Rachel could make Andrew believe that there 
was no antagonism felt by any one of them against 
Martin, but that their great desire was to arrange 
everything for his welfare. They were glad to 
hear that he did not intend to quit Brackenburn 
on their arrival, although he had taken lodgings 
in the bailiff’s house, resolved not to sleep under 
the same roof as Sidney. 

The weather during December was unusually 
severe. For several days a bitter northeast 
wind, rising almost to a gale, swept across Eng- 
land, and there was a leaden hue in the gloomy 
sky, as of low" clouds charged with snow, w^hich 
needed a little rise in the temperature before it 
could fall. EvenatApley, black frosts, changing 
into dense fogs, prevailed. But in Yorkshire, 
though the fogs were lighter, the frost was 
keener. Every pool and tarn on the moors w"ere 
ice-bound, and the noisy burn running down the 


02{ THE Moons. 


465 


valley at Brackeiiburn was silenced, only a slug- 
gish thread of water trickling under the sheet of 
ice which spread from side to side. The coarse 
grass upon the moors was fringed with ice ; and 
the low ^trees, now bare of leaves, showed like 
masses of white coral against the leaden sky. 
The farmers brought their flocks of sheep to pas- 
tures near home, and only the wild ponies were 
left to brave the inclemency of the threatened 
storm. But it was slow in coming. Now and 
then the clouds broke, and gleams of wintry sun- 
shine, or a brilliant vision of stars, appeared 
through the opening. 

The winter once again made Martin feel more 
at home. This snow-charged sky was familiar to 
him, more familiar than the soft, hazy, blue sky, 
or the drifting clouds of summer. The moor- 
lands, too, were less strange to him in their frost- 
bound grayness than in the gorgeous purple and 
gold of autumn. He felt less homesick than 
usual ; yet he was no happier. There was a 
lurking dread in his heart, so vague that he was 
only dimly conscious of it — the dread of having 
Philij) and Dorothy in their great happiness 
always in sight. 

For he loved Dorothy with a passion that was 
none the less because he could not express it in 
words, even to himself. He felt himself unfit 
for her — far beneath her. He could see how 
Philip stood beside her, her equal, each 
suited to the other. But this did not make 
his inferiority less painful to him. He knew 
enough of his present x>osition to be aware 


466 


HALF BROTHEHS. 


that wliat Philip was he might have been. They 
had brought this foolish girl, Selina, to be his 
wife, but how could he love her when he had 
seen Dorothy ? 

The day was come when all these great and 
line people were expected to arrive — to find him 
in their way — always in their way, like a dog 
who has no right to a place on the hearth, but 
is not driven away out of pity. This kindness 
of theirs was only a little less oppressive than 
Chiara’s tyranny. ISTever could he become what 
they wished him to be, yet he would have to be 
always striving to become it. It was as if they 
stood on a sunlit peak far above him, beckoning 
and calling to him to come up to them, while he 
was chained at the foot, and could climb but a 
very little way toward them. Forever climbing 
and forever falling, with soreness of heart and 
sickness of soul. This was what his future life 
would be. 

Early in the short day he started off for the 
moors, followed at a little distance by Andrew, 
who was as miserable as himself. Martin strode 
on across the trackless uplands, scarcely heeding 
where he went, though he kept his purpose 
vaguely in his mind. He was going toward his 
cave, three miles away ; but, at present, trivial 
objects were sufficient to divert him from his 
path. The wild creatures, so numerous on the 
moors, were become almost tame by tlie severity of 
the cold, and many of them were lying dead on the 
frozen ground. Martin stood at times for some 


ON THE MOOns. 


467 


minutes gazing down with a sort of pity on these 
victims of the cold. In former days he would 
have rejoiced over them as so much prey ; but he 
was never hungry now, and he had seen Dorothy 
look sad over the dead body of a bird. So with 
this dim sense of compassion in his heart he 
stood and gazed at them. Then Andrew, who 
kept him in sight as far as his old limbs permit- 
ted, had time to overtake him, and lay his hand 
upon Martin’s arm, and point toward home, 
only to start him on again in his devious 
course. 

Ever since he understood that his death would 
reinstate Philip in his old position, he had 
thought wistfully of death. There was no escape 
out of the evil about him except by dying. He 
was too much of a savage yet to think of suicide ; 
that is a crime of a certain degree of civilization. 
To put himself to death would have been to him 
almost as impossible as for a beast to do so. But 
as he came again and again across these crea- 
tures who had perished by the cold, the idea of 
death was kept all day before his mind. 

There was a brief spell of sunshine, but it soon 
came to an end, and the wintry beauty of the 
moors was over. They lay sullen and gloomy 
under the sullen and gloomy sky. The frost- 
bound pools lurked in the hollows like black 
gulfs. A sudden blast of freezing wind blew 
across the wide expanse with a shriek, beneath 
which was a moan. Then there followed a 
silence ; and the crackling of the frozen twigs and 


468 


HALF BROTHERS. 


sedges under his feet sounded with strange 
loudness. 

He went on more languidly, for with the hid- 
ing of the sun the glow passed out of his veins. 
The sky in the north, toward which his face 
was turned, grew denser and darker ; and he 
wondered why he saw no snowy peaks rising 
against it. For he was at home again, in Am- 
pezzo, and more than once he fancied he heard 
Chiara’s shrill, threatening voice calling to him. 
Was he come out to seek anything that was lost ? 
Were all the sheep safe ? and the goats \ He 
could hear no bleating. The wolves would be 
dangerous in such weather as this. And now 
the snow was falling thickly, driven by the wind 
in giddy circles, and swirling around him be- 
wilderingly. He laughed aloud as he stood still 
to watch them. But he had lost his way, and 
there was nothing to guide him ; no light in the 
sky except from these white, fluttering snow- 
flakes. In which direction did his cave lie ? 
Once there he would be under shelter from the 
storm. 

All at once he heard the frenzied shouting of 
old Andrew’s voice, calling, “Martin! Martin!” 
and he came back with a start to the present 
time. He was not on the mountains above 
Cortina, but in England, on the wild moors, and 
the voice calling to him was not Chiara’s, but the 
old man’s, who Avas said to be his mother’s 
father. He shouted back again, and the call 
drew nearer. He Avent a feAv steps toward the 
sound ; and the tall, stooping figure of Andrew 


ON THE MOORS. 


469 


loomed through the driving storm. As Martin 
drew near him, he uttered a cry of joy, and fell 
senseless and benumbed into his arms, which he 
stretched out to catch him. 

“I will save you, old man,’’ cried Martin ; “I 
will save you.” 


CHAPTER LYIL 


EXPIATION. 

Important business had taken Sidney to Liver- 
pool, and it had been arranged that instead of 
returning to Apley, he should go across to 
Brackenburn and meet the rest of the Christmas 
party there. Traveling was a good deal impeded 
by a severe snowstorm, and he was disappointed, 
though not surprised, to find that the London 
train was very much behind time, when he 
reached the country station nearest to Bracken- 
burn. Leaving the carriage and brake to bring 
the large party coming up from the south, 
Sidney hired a light spring cart, which would 
make its way more quickly and easily along the 
encumbered roads. The early night had already 
fallen ; and a few breaks in the drifting clouds, 
through which the stars shone by twos and 
threes, seemed to foretell a cessation in the 
storm. 

The full moon was shining through one of 
these rifts when he reached the forecourt of the old 
house, and its silvery light fell on all the gables, 
and touched every tossing spray of ivy glistering 
with the freshly fallen snow. But instead of the 
cheerful lights shining in every window, all the 
front of the house was in darkness. Within the 
wide porch a deep drift almost barred the ap- 

470 


ilXPIATIOK 


471 


proach to the door. There was something omin- 
ous in the deathlike silence and darkness of this 
place, to which he had been traveling with the 
expectation of entering it surrounded by all 
whom he loved , most. There stole over him a 
sense of loneliness, such as all of us feel at times, 
when the utter solitude of the life within us, 
the isolation of each one’s spirit, j)resses con- 
sciously and with deep awe upon us. No words 
could say how precious Margaret was to him ; 
but even she could never enter into the secret and 
mysterious house of his soul. 

A glimmer in a distant window at last answered 
to the driver’s noisy and repeated ringing of the 
great bell ; and the door was opened, Mary Gold- 
smith appearing with a face of terror. 

“Oh, Mr. Martin !” she cried in a tremulous 
voice, “ they’re lost in the snow. They’ve never 
come back. Andrew and Martin are lost in the 
snow ! ” 

For a moment it seemed as if her words forbade 
his entrance ; and he stood motionless on the 
threshold looking from her to the whiteness of 
the scene behind him. 

“Come in, come in,” she said impatiently, 
“and tells us what we must do. All the men 
are gone to the station, and only the old gar- 
dener’s left. They went out hours ago, Andrew 
and Martin, and never came back. They’d have 
been home before nightfall if they hadn’t lost 
themselves.” 

Sidney entered the hall, leaving the heavy door 
ajar, and in a minute or two a long drift of 


472 


HALF BROTHERS. 


snow stretched across the polished floor, blown 
in by the rising wind. 

‘‘ Has nobody gone in search of them ? ” asked 
Sidney. 

“Nay ! ” said Mary, crying, “ there’s onl}^ me, 
and Selina, and the maids ; and it’s such a dizzy 
storm. We lost our way only going along the 
garden walks. We couldn’t see a yard before 
us. But we’ve lighted up all the windows at the 
back, looking over the moor. Only I’m afraid 
they can’ t be seen far ofl through the driving 
snow.” 

The wind had risen again almost to a gale, and 
roared round the solitary house, shaking every 
door and casement, and beating the long ivy 
tendrils against the windowpanes. Sidney could 
see nothing even of the storm for the sheet of ice 
and snow covering the outside of the windows. 
Andrew old, and Martin ailing in health, out on 
the moors, in this tempest ! He looked into 
Mary’s terror-stricken face with an expression 
of intense anxiety. 

“They will be dead before morning!” cried 
Mary. 

She put his own half formed thought into 
blunt words. Dead! Sophy’sfather and Sophy’s 
son! The old, long gone by days when he was a 
boy and madly in love with Sophy came back to 
him vividly, as if the effacing touch of many 
years had not blotted out the recollection of 
them. The girl’s pretty, saucy face, her high 
spirits and merry moods, her unrestrained love 
for him and his brief frenzied passion for her, 


EXPIATION. 


473 


all the long forgotten memories, sprang into bit- 
ter and stinging life. His conscience told him 
he had been glad when he knew she was dead, 
leaving his way to happiness and prosperity clear 
before him. But there was a great horror to him 
in a thought which was lurking somewhere in 
an obscure corner of his brain, a murderous 
thought, that he would rejoice in the death of 
Sopliy’s son. What would he do if Philip, his 
beloved son, were lost on the moors ? That must 
he do for Martin. 

He forgot Margaret for the time, as if to him she 
had no existence. He thought only of his sons — 
Philip, whom he would give his life to save, and 
Martin, to whom he owed a deeper debt than to 
any other human being ; and flinging open the 
hall door he i)recipitated himself into the storm. 
There was a sudden lull as he did so ; the gusts 
of wind ceased, and the dizzy snowflakes no 
longer hid the way. Bidding Mary send all the 
aid she could, as soon as the men arrived from 
the station, Sidney started across the moors. 

He was fairly well acquainted with their gen- 
eral aspect, and felt no misgiving as to keeping 
within the range of the points most familiar to 
him. The light was clear enough to enable him 
to avoid the greater drifts, and the hollows, lying 
like great basins of snow. Besides, at any mo- 
ment he might come upon the weary men, ex- 
hausted, perhaps, with exposure and fatigue, 
but stumbling homeward. From time to time 
he shouted, and waited, listening 2:)ainfully for 
some answer. But no answer came, and still he 


474 


HALF BROTHERS. 


went on, busy with the multiplicity of thoughts 
that crowded through his brain, and taking little 
heed of time or distance. 

It seemed almost as if Martin and Philip were 
walking beside him. The fatherhood that was in 
him — the most godlike of all human emotions — was 
stirred to its very depths. He knew what it was; 
he had felt it in all its fullness toward Philip. 
But Martin also was his son ! What an infinite 
love and pathos there were in the words “my 
son” ! It seemed incredible, impossible, that he 
could have so sinned against that divine father- 
hood in himself as to forsake the mother of his 
firstborn child. He had given life to Martin, but 
alas ! what a life ! Could he never set that 
wrong right through even the countless ages of 
eternity ? Had not Martin lost forever the birth- 
right that ought to have been his in this world ? 

No love either of father or mother ; no symbol 
by which he could learn the love of God himself. 
Martin had never known what it was to be a son. 
All the innocent blisses, the passing gladness, the 
deep, unutterable joys of a happy childhood had 
been stolen from him. That which Philip had 
possessed in the richest measure Martin had had 
no least taste of. His childhood had been deso- 
late and oppressed as childhood ought never to 
to be ; his manhood had been given over to des- 
titution and slavery. The father had sown in a 
small seed-plot, the son had reaped in a wide 
harvest-field. 

The chief bitterness of it all, the very sting of 
death, was that no atonement was possible. As 


EXPIATION. 


475 


Sidney struggled onward through the clogging 
snowdrifts, he felt that he could give up even 
Margaret if he could recall the past. What was 
wealth, or influence, or the love of wife and child, 
or the choicest of all earth’s many gifts, com- 
pared with the joy of having been true to that 
which was most akin to God in his own nature ? 
That joy could never be his ; but he would be a 
true father to Martin now, though he could not 
hope to find in him the sonship which is the 
crown of fatherhood. 

The lull in the storm was over. The snowflakes 
began to whirl around him giddily, driven and 
tossed hither and thither by the bitter wind, and 
falling so thickly that they formed a dense veil 
of fluttering atoms, as impervious to the sight 
as a stone wall. The familiar landmarks were 
utterly lost were they ever so near to him. He 
fought his way through the wind and the snow as 
best he could, calling from time to time. The 
thick air was soundless ; he could hear only his 
own heavy sighs and labored breath. The biting 
cold was making him feel dull and torpid ; a 
lethargy crept over his busy brain. 

Suddenly, as if a white curtain had been drawn 
aside for a moment, he saw on the other side of a 
slight ravine the cave which had been Martin’s 
chosen retreat, and in the safe shelter of it sat 
Andrew and Martin, with a fire burning brightly 
in the entrance of the cave. Yonder there were 
warmth and safety; and in Sidney’s clouded 
brain there sprang a great gladness at having- 
found his son. He cried ‘‘Martin!” and it 


476 


HALF BROTHERS. 


seemed to him as if he turned his ear toward him 
and listened to his call. 

But the vision was hidden again from his sight 
before he could take a step forward ; and still 
groping his way, though feebly and with ex- 
hausted limbs, he struggled on through the be- 
wildering snowflakes to reach the haven of his 
son’s shelter. 


CHAPTER LYIII. 

NIGHT AND MORNING. 

Scarcely an hour later than Sidney’s arrival 
Margaret came to Brackenburn, with the large 
party of her companions and servants. It did 
not strike her or Philip that there could be much 
danger in a storm such as they had passed 
through coming from the south. But Dorothy 
and the servants belonging to Brackenburn 
looked grave. The men, huddled in the porch, 
held a consultation. It was impossible to do 
anything until the downfall abated. The giddy 
maze of snowflakes was more bewildering than 
the darkest night, for lanterns could be of no use 
in such a storm, as they would have been in utter 
darkness. 

“Oh ! Miss Dorothy,” cried Mary, “you know 
this country’s ways better than us from the south. 
Is there nothing we can do?” 

“ Nothing,” she answered ; “we must wait till 
the snow abates. Nobody could go out in a 
storm like this.” 

“Would not your St. Bernard track them?” 
asked Philip. 

“ No,” she said, “ none of the men could ven- 
ture out now. Oh! you don’t know what it is. 
You cannot go, Philip ; you could not find your 
way for five minutes.” 


477 


478 


HALF BROTHERS. 


“They’ll be frozen to death before morning,” 
wailed Mary. 

“No,” answered Dorothy in a faltering voice ; 
“Martin would get to his cave, and they are safe 
there. But there is your father, Philip.” 

“He hasn’t been gone an hour,” said Mary, 
“and the others have been out six hours or 
more.” 

They gathered round the fire, which had 
smoldered down upon the neglected hearth ; 
but it was soon in a blaze again, and the cheerful 
light fell upon Margaret’s pale and thoughtful 
face. Philip and Dorothy looked at her, and 
then glanced apprehensively at each other. For 
the moment Margaret, with her steadfast and 
simple air of tranquillity, seemed to belong to 
another world than theirs. 

“God is also in the storm,” she said softly, as 
if to herself. She drew Dorothy close to her, 
and laid her other hand on Philip’s arm. 

“Children,” she said, “we are no safer than 
they are, for we are all alike in the hands of God. 
You must go and take food and rest, that you 
may be strong to help as soon as the storm is 
over. Philip must go to seek them as soon as 
it is possible to find them.” 

But Margaret herself could not take either rest 
or food. Under her habitual tranquillity, which 
had become almost a second nature to her, there 
was to-night a strange agitation, such as she had 
felt but once before. This breaking up of the 
deep spring of feeling differed from "the storm 
that had shaken her soul to the center when she 


mOHT AND MORNING. 


479 


discovered Sidney’s treachery ; but it was not 
less intense. She had never known before how 
much she loved him as her husband, with what 
a passionate force her heart clung to him. It 
seemed to her as if she was actually out with him, 
out in the bewildering snow, weary, aching, 
stumbling from drift to drift, growing numb and 
torpid. Oh! if she were really by his side, 
speaking to him, and hearing his dear voice ! It 
was right that he should go to seek Martin ; she 
did not grudge the peril. She was glad that he 
should risk his life for the son whose life he had 
ruined. But if he should perish, her husband, 
just now, when he had attained a higher level, 
when the love of God had conquered his love of 
the world 1 

From time to time Margaret opened her case- 
ment and looked out on the baffling snow-fall, 
which f filled all the contracted field of vision. 
Nothing else could she see, not even the sky ; 
only the dancing motes against a background of 
dense gloom. 

Soon after dawn the downfall ceased, and 
Dorothy led Philip up to an attic window from 
which there was the widest view of the moorland. 
Stretching before their dazzled eyes was an un- 
dulating plain of the purest white, with not a 
track or mark upon it. Here and there a line of 
the faintest primrose shining in the pale daylight 
showed the crest of a hillock or the margin of a 
hollow. But all landmarks were blotted out. 
The sky was still of a leaden hue, and there was a 
threatening of more snow on the northern horizon. 


480 


HALF BROTHERS. 


‘‘We must find them before another night 
comes on/’ exclaimed Philip. 

“ I could find my way to Martin’s cave with a 
compass,” said Dorothy hesitatingly. “If the 
sun comes out I am sure I could find it.” 

“But you must not go, my darling,” he an- 
swered. “ I cannot let you go with us men.” 

“My dogs would be very little use without 
me,” she said; “they will not follow anyone 
else so well. I don’t think the dogs can track 
them, but Martin might hear their baying, and 
would make an effort to come to us, or let us 
know where they are.” 

“ Let us start at once then,” exclaimed Philip. 

The men were scanning the threatened storm 
in the north, but Dorothy’s appearance, ready to 
go with them, silenced all objections. The snow 
was too soft to walk on easily, and the dogs 
whined as she bade them follow her, but they 
obeyed. 

“ Only pray ’at the storm ’ill keep off till we 
are liome again,” said the old shexfiierd, who could 
estimate the danger of their undertaking better 
than anyone else. Margaret watched them from 
her window with a wistful tenderness in her eyes, 
which were heavy and dim with her sleepless 
night. It was not possible for her to go. 

The sun shone faintly, and Dorothy, by its aid 
and that of her compass, could direct the course 
of the little trooj) of men and dogs to the point 
where the cave was. She fancied she could rec- 
ognize, under the softly undulating surface, the 
outlines of one ridge after another, and the hoi- 


mOHT AND MORNING. 


481 


lows where frozen tarns were lying. The men 
shouted, and the dogs bayed with their deep 
voices, filling the moorland with their cry, but 
there was no sign as yet that any of the lost men 
heard them. How swiftly the jirecious moments 
were passing by ! and how slow was the progress 
which they made ! The leaden snowclouds were 
slowly climbing up the sky, and had already 
covered the dim disk of the low lying sun. 

“I feel sure the cave is over there,” said 
Dorothy. 

They had reached a more rugged part of the 
upland, strewn with masses of rock, which stood 
half buried in heather in the summer. Deep 
snowdrifts had gathered on the side of each of 
them. The cave lay under a rock at the head of 
a long, narrow dell, scarcely more than a cleft in 
the earth, down which a burn ran in summer ; 
and above the margin of this cleft stood a shape 
which, as they drew near to it, took the form of 
a cross. 

They hastened to the ravine, and looked down 
into it. It was half filled with a deep drift, which 
almost hid the mouth of the cave, but the wind 
had blown away most of the snow from the old 
Calvary, which had weathered so many wintry 
tempests in the Arapezzo Valley. The arms of 
the cross were pure white, and the crucified form 
upon it was swathed in a white shroud. But the 
foot of it was buried in the snow, and a human 
form lay there almost hidden by it, with arms 
outstretched, as if to clasp the cross. Who could 
it be ? 


CHAPTER LIX. 

FOUND. 

For a few moments they all stood paralyzed 
and speechless on the edge of the ravine, gazing 
down at the death-like form. Dorothy and 
Philip clasped one another’s hands with a grasp 
as if their own death was near. Then the dogs 
broke noisily on the dread silence, and as the 
clamor rang through the air, there came a shout 
from the cave ; and Martin made his way through 
the drifted snow, and stood in the entrance, 
looking up to them with rough gestures of 
delight. 

A sharp cry of terror broke from Philip’s lips, 
and springing down into the ravine he cleared 
away the snow that covered the prostrate form. 
Martin was beside him in an instant, and with 
swift, savage instinct, he bent down, and laid 
his head on his father’s breast, to hear if the 
heart within was beating still. His head had 
never rested there before, and now it lay there 
motionless, listening for the feeblest throb that 
spoke of life. No one moved or spoke. How 
long the suspense lasted, who could tell? But 
at length Martin raised himself, and looked up 
into Philip’s face. 

“ My brother, our father is dead ! ” he said. 

And now Philip flung himself down upon his 

482 


Foum). 


483 


father’s breast. How often he had lain there ! 
How many thousands of times had these out- 
stretched arms carried him to and fro, and these 
lips spoken to him the fondest and proudest 
words a father could utter ! He cried, “ Father ! 
father ! ” in a tone of passionate entreaty, which 
made the hearts ache of all who heard him. But 
no man there dare tell him that there was any 
hope. 

There was, however, no time to spare. If the 
coming storm broke out again in its former fury 
the position of all of them would be perilous. 
Martin beckoned them to follow him into the 
cave, where old Andrew lay, well protected by 
dry fern and ling heaped about him, and witli 
Martin’s thick overcoat laid over him. He was 
too feeble to walk home across the moors, and a 
double burden had to be borne by them. 

It was a slow and sorrowful progress home- 
ward under the gloomy sky, and across the 
trackless snow. Philip and Martin had to take 
their part in carrying the rude litter on which 
their father lay, and Dorothy, speechless with 
grief and anxiety for Margaret, walked beside it. 
Margaret watched the mournful procession as 
it crept slowly toward her across the silent up- 
lands. Never before had she been so vividly con- 
scious of the presence of God. “In him we 
live, and move, and have our being,” she said in 
her inmost soul, with a gladness as sharp as 
pain, as these slowly moving forms of those she 
loved most drew nearer. One was being carried 
home ; and by a subtle, sympathetic instinct 


484 


HALF BLtOTHEm. 


which had stirred within her all night, she knew 
who it must be. Sidney, her husand, dearer 
than all save God, was being brought home to 
her, dead. 

She met Philip at the door of her room, his 
young features drawn and set with anguish, and 
she laid her hand in his, and looked up into his 
eyes, with a tender tranquillity on her white 
face. 

‘‘Do not tell me,’’ she said, “only show me 
where they have laid him.” 

They went hand in hand silently across the 
old hall to the library door ; then Margaret 
paused, and pushed Philip gently on one side, 
with such a smile as the angel of death might 
have upon his benignant face. 

“I must go in alone,” she said, “and let no 
one come near me. But I know that God is 
good.” 

Philip and Dorothy watched within sight of 
the door through wliich she had disappeared 
and Martin stretched himself on the lloor at their 
feet. Deeper than their own grief was their 
sorrow for the mortal anguish of Margaret. For 
what would life be to either of them if the other 
was taken away ? They did not speak ; biit they 
looked into each other’s face, and felt that their 
love was made greater and more sacred b3^ this 
calamity. Martin’s sad eyes were fastened upon 
them, as they sat together, leaning toward one 
another, as if words between them were not 
needed. 

“My brother,” he said, breaking the silence 


FOUND. 


485 


at last, ‘‘I wish I was dead instead of my father. 
Why did he go out into the storm ? ’’ 

“He went to find you, Martin,’’ answered 
Dorothy. 

“To find me ! ” he cried, “ to find me !” 

A gleam of gladness came across his heavy face, 
and into his deep-set eyes ; and he raised him- 
self from the ground to pace up and down the 
floor, murmuring, “To find me,” again and again 
to himself. Once he approached the closed door 
of the library, and knelt before it, crossing him- 
self devoutly, and whispering a prayer, such as 
he was wont to say at the foot of the Calvary. 
After a while he returned to the hearth, where 
Philip and Dorothy had been anxiously watching 
him. 

“My father went out into the storm to find 
me,” he said with glistening eyes. “I shall 
know him now when I see him again in Para- 
dise.” 

How long they waited they never knew ; but 
at last from the soundless room Margaret came 
out, white as death, but with a radiant look upon 
her face such as they had never seen before. 
Dorothy and Philip stood up in awed silence 
but Martin fell down on his knees as she drew 
near to them. She laid her hands upon his 
shoulders and, bending over him, laid her lips 
upon his wrinkled forehead. 

It was the seal of such a pardon as few women 
are called upon to give. This man had cost her 
all that she most prized on earth. He was the 
living memorial of her husband’s sin. He would 


486 


HALF BROTHERS. 


thrust her firstborn son out of his birthright. 
As long as she lived he would be to her the 
symbol of all earthly anguish, and love, and 
bitterness. But her heart was melted with inex- 
pressible pity for him, a pity which his dark 
mind could never understand. Nothing but this 
mute and solemn caress could tell him that she 
pitied and loved him. 

Dorothy understood it more fully than the 
others did, and, throwing her arms around Mar- 
garet, she burst into a passion of tears. 


CHAPTER LX. 
martin’s fate. 

Andrew Goldsmith was ailing for a few days, 
and kept his bed until after the funeral solemni- 
ties were over. Sidney was taken home to Apley, 
to be buried where Margaret would some day lie 
beside him. Martin went down there for the first 
time to appear as one of the chief mourners at his 
father’s grave ; but he returned immediately to 
Brackenburn, which was now his own. 

Andrew Goldsmith entered into his heart’s 
desire. Sophy’s son, his own grandson, was now 
the squire of Brackenburn, the possessor of the 
estates entailed by Sir John Martin. He would 
take his place as a wealthy landowner, a man of 
position and infiuence. The old saddler, who 
had been so long dominated by a fixed idea, 
could hardly give a thought to the tragic fate 
of his son-in-law, Sophy’s husband, who had 
deserted her, and left her to die among strangers. 
Once or twice Mary overheard him saying to 
himself, “He died alone, like my Sophy, with 
nobody near him as loved him.” But he seldom 
spoke of Sidney. 

“I must see they don’t wrong Martin,” he 
said, full of suspicion even of Margaret and his 
own sister Rachel ; “ there’s a many ways rich 

487 


488 


HALF BROTHERS. 


folks can wrong poor ones. I must see to it 
myself.’’ 

But his disappointment was great when he 
found that all Sidney’s accumulated wealth was 
left to Philip, Martin and Hugh, his other sons, 
being amply provided for in other ways. Philip’ s 
portion was still the largest. Andrew’s chagrin 
and consternation were boundless, and he could 
never believe that his grandson had not been 
defrauded. The idea fastened on his mind, and 
made him a miserable man. 

Martin contributed largely to his misery. He 
was now unquestionably an English landowner, 
but he could not, or would not, live otherwise 
than as an Austrian peasant. It was at first 
planned that Philip should buy an estate near 
Brackenburn, and take Martin under his 
brotherly protection and influence. But the 
vast complications of his father’s business in- 
volved too many interests for him to withdraw 
from it for some years. He could not sacrifice 
the interests of hundreds of families to his own 
desire for a private life, or even to the claims of 
brotherhood. He felt himself called to step into 
his father’s place, and for some time to be the 
head of the many branches into which his father s 
business had spread. 

So Martin was left reluctantly to his fate. 
Before long a priest from the Amj^ezzo Yalley, a 
man whom he knew, came to take charge of him 
and his affairs. Martin was glad to have anybody 
who could talk to him in his own dialect ; and 
this man, to whom he looked up in awe and rev- 


MARTIN’S FATE. 


489 


erence, was so kindly to him, and knew how to 
direct him so well, that he soon yielded to him 
the unquestioning obedience of an ignorant peas- 
ant to his priest. There was no more intercourse 
than before between Andrew and his grandson ; 
but the former, with all his narrow and strong 
prejudices, was compelled to witness the intro- 
duction of foreign ways and Popish idolatry, as 
he called it, into Martin’s household. This was 
not what he had looked forward to when liis 
heart had beaten high with pride when his grand- 
son took possession of his estates. 

Now and then Philip went to see his half- 
brother, when he could spare a day or two, and 
Margaret every year spent a few weeks at 
Brackenburn. But Martin only once visited 
Apley, the restraints of a home so civilized and 
cultured being intolerably irksome to him. He 
was not unhappy, but he had none of the higher 
joys of life. There was one point on which 
no man could influence him. He would never 
marry. Ignorant and savage as he must always 
remain, there was an austere purity of soul in 
him which made it impossible for him to marry 
without love. 

The conviction that, after all, Philip or Philip’s 
son would succeed to the estates was a secret 
trouble to Laura for the rest of her life. If she 
could but have known that Philip would be the 
most wealthy of Sidney’s three sons ! But she 
had formed no idea of the immense accumulation 
of Sidney’s private property, which would have 
all been Phyllis’s if she had not broken off that 


490 


HALF BROTHERS. 


match. Phyllis shared her chagrin in some 
measure, but it was tempered with the anticipa- 
tions of a youthful beauty. There were other 
men besides Philip, she said, though he was a 
great miss. And she had loved him, she added, 
with more saduess in her tone than her mother 
had ever heard. They both took more interest 
in the details of Philip and Dorothy’s marriage 
than Margaret herself did. 

Margaret took up her old life in her old home, 
where most of all Sidney’s presence was most 
real to her. It was her conviction that he was 
present, a thin though impenetrable veil alone 
lying between them. In this path of consolation 
and peace she walked by faith, a more satisfjdng 
thing than walking by sight. She knew that if 
he had not gone forth to seek the son whom he 
did not love, there would have dwelt in her heart 
of hearts a lurking condemnation of him, which 
would have been exceedingly bitter ; whereas 
now there was there a thankful sense of the full 
atonement he had made for deserting his child 
in his infancy. She could well wait until she 
spoke face to face with Sidney again. Day by 
day she was strengthened with strength in her 
soul. 


THE END. 














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